If only he could touch someone’s hand now—anyone’s hand—the hand of a human being! To be all alone with the cruel, flickering stars up above, that was no way to die—snuffed out into the darkness. That was no way for any man to go, even though he _were_ just a peasant. But Anton knew himself important now, almost as important as a general. He knew himself important, with a strange, tremendous importance. He was as important as almost anyone in the world, and he was dying alone in the darkness. Then he remembered that there must be other men in the cornfield. He had thought of that before, and afterwards he had forgotten. If there were other men here—even one other man, an enemy—he would find that comrade and they would die together. Slowly, painfully, inch by inch he dragged himself. The stalks were like an impenetrable thicket. They entangled him as snares or a forest of swords set about him. He dragged himself on his palms, inch by inch, butting away the cornstalks. An Austrian was lying on his back, gazing upward. He was dead now, but Anton did not know it. There was a wound in his neck, and the flies had begun to gather. Anton gave a sob as he saw the Austrian. One more effort and he would be near enough to touch him. Perhaps the Austrian would grip his hand—hard—as Sasha had gripped it. The hand of the Austrian did not grip hard when Anton touched it. It fluttered a little, however—Anton was sure of that. So Anton covered the hand with his own, and with his own hand gripped hard, as Sasha had gripped the hand of Anton. And so died Anton Tarasovitch, looking up at the stars. Art as it appears without the artist, i. e., as a body, an organization (the Prussian Officers’ Corps, the Order of the Jesuits). To what extent is the artist merely a preliminary stage? The world regarded as a self-generating work of art.—_Nietzsche._ Rupert Brooke (_A Memory_) ARTHUR DAVISON FICKE One night—the last we were to have of you— High up above the city’s giant roar We sat around you on the generous floor— Since chairs were lame or stony or too few— And as you read, and the low music grew In exquisite tendrils twining the heart’s core, All the conjecture we had felt before Flashed into torch-flame, and at last we knew. And Maurice, who in silence long has hidden A voice like yours, became a wreck of joy To inarticulate ecstasies beguiled. And you, as from some secret world now bidden To make return, stared up, and like a boy Blushed suddenly, and looked at us, and smiled. [Illustration: RUPERT BROOKE, MCMXIV] To a West Indian Alligator (_Estimated age, 1957 years_)[2] EUNICE TIETJENS