Cambridge Latin High School - Review Yearbook (Cambridge, MA)

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6 The Cambridge I think that his thoughts are gloomy for he turns abruptly from the banks. As he passes by me, I see an angry face, half-hidden by a turned up collar, turn towards me - gleaming with hatred and despair. Why does he look like that? What have I done - or the river . . . I start and wonder but he is gone, leaving behind the still and calm Charles River. As I sit on the broken bench and look at the Charles between half-closed eyelids, I think of many things - mixed thoughts in my head that I under- stand but can't convey into words, How the river changes in its shape! Perhaps it's just my imagina- tion that when I look at the buildings, with their lighted windows, the street lamps with their bril- liant flames, and the colorful reflections, they appear to me as just the center ornament of the limitless grey sky and the soft, grey waters of the Charles that join together and form something measureless, unknown, and queer. Far away - somewhere - I hear a joyful and rather coarse shout that shakes me from my pleas- ant thoughts and makes me realize that I am not dreaming. Soon, clearly outlined against the grey, blinking waters are two long canoes, gliding stealth- ily on the peaceful river. Once more a shout is heard, this time louder and so harsh that even the mysterious Charles seems to protest, its waters ripple reproachfully - gently. One-two-atta boy- one, with equal strokes that splash in the deep waters the canoes glide on making a pleasant, rip- pling sound that soon grows softer as they vanish into the dark distance and finally die away. The Charles is quiet now and very peaceful. Everything is tranquil in me - even the shrill horns of the motorcars and the grumbling noise of the tram cars seem to have some sort of rhythm. It is getting late and the dusky red in the sky turns into a greyish colour slightly tinted with yellow. Another star, smaller and less bright than the first, has come out and peeks mysteriously from under its soft blanket casting a quiet reflection on the calm river. Suddenly, quite unexpectedly, the river seems to sense some disturbance as if some foreboding thought had passed through its vast mind. Its waters burst into many gentle ripples, so strange and disturbingg it becomes louder as the waves come nearer the shore - the reflected lights tremble slightly and in these golden lines I can see hundreds of little flares that sway together uickly and mer- rily, sometimes intermingling, anid at times sepa- rating for some distance. It is getting darker and the river reflects more lights. As I walk slowly along the little ath on the shore, I look back for just one last look at the luminous river, that dark, peaceful body of water that has given me a feeling of tran uility - and also of fear. I wonder why they called it Charles, those brave men that first settled on its shores? That delightful monarch of England was in no way like this moody river - nor was it like him. He probably was a tall, skinny man with a broken nose and a powdered moustache who thought of the river not as it is, but as a crooked black line - a small, black line slightly twisted in places like a wiggly caterpillarg scratched on some crumpled sheet of paper, its course directed by a child's un- willing hand - just as a caterpillar crawls slowly and painfully on a light, green mulberry leaf. That is what the Charles is in imagination. I'd rather see it like that, than in reality, on a cool evening in autumn when its waters ripple too gently to be com- forting, when its colour is too grey and powerful in its greynessg sinister in its tranquility and calm - too calm perhaps. For though it is beautiful it inspires fear in me and dreary thoughts of the past. Mysterious river! What long ages of history must have passed you by! I wonder who lirst came to worship your smooth waters. Perhaps it was a savage redskin who stumbled upon you unexpect- edly, through high swishing grasses and coarse trunks of trees, staring in astonishment at your cool, beautiful waters. I can imagine his brown glistening body, painted with odd colours, as he warily comes towards your shores. Perhaps he stum- bles and slips into your waiting arms while your waves ripple slightly and sweet bubbles rise on your surface. Perhaps he lies there still, his remains hav- ing mingled with the ground on which you flow. But deep river - you are calm, unknowing, mys- terious, and cold. I fear you and so I leave. As I walk on I can hear from the distance the happy voices of the boys in the canoes as they glide once more on the river. The moon seems to mock at me and I fearfully walk away. What a beautiful river - the Charles! How calm and peaceful - too calm perhaps. Boys on the river - I ask you - beware of this cold, dark river. TAMARA POLEVOY, '40, SILENT SERVANTS T this time of the year, especially, the eyes of America are upon automobiles. It is now that the new models are making their flashing de- but. The 1940 automobiles are not only more beautiful, but are much nearer to mechanical per- fection than ever before. These modern genii are even more dependable and faithful than the one in the bottle. Startling developments, such as the complete elimination of clutch and shift in the Oldsmobile, automatic folding top on the Ford, and fourth speed forward on the Nash, high light the new edition of the great American servant, mak- infg him one of the most eliicient, economical, beau- ti ul, and powerful aids ever available to the com- mon man. PAUL KIRBY, '39.

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'Review 5 STAINED GLASS IN the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Chartres are the most beautiful stained glass windows that I have ever seen. I have seen stained glass windows in many churches, even those in the Sainte Chapelle which are said to be some of the most beautiful. Those in Chartres appealed to me most. I re- member them especially clearly from the first time that I ever visited the cathedral. It was a hot, sunny day when I entered the quiet, cool, and peaceful semi-darkness. On the floor before me were the patches of blue light made by the sun, shining through the great windows high above. The windows in this cathedral are especially re- markable because of the predominance of blue in them. This is not a bright purple or a light blue but a deep, rich, medium color. The red stands out in sharp contrast. The scarcity of the other colors gives a very imposing effect. Yet one does not tire of the blue. The atmosphere of Notre Dame de Chartres is much more calming and restful than that of any other cathedral. I am sure that the blue windows make this difference. . The windows are made up of many little pic- tures and scenes, forming together one design. Each window is entirely different from the rest. There may be a series of large circles with separate little scenes around these. Or the design may be in the form of a number of diamonds, placed one above the other. Or one may be composed of only small, equal squares. Usually every window tells one story. Each small picture is a part not only of the design but also of the whole story. There are dozens of little figures in one window. Each is a work of art. The most beautiful window of them all is the great rose. It appears to be made up of jewels, of the most equisite coloring, especially blue, set into the deep blackness of the wall. These different parts, which are circles of different sizes, join to form one unit, a rose window, so beautiful that I cannot describe it. These windows are, justly, one of the greatest treasures of France. Eva HEGEIVIANN, '40. CHARLES RIVER LITTLE child, just like the numerous other A children in the classroom, stared gloomily through the window and then with a deep sigh turned her rebellious brown eyes back to the messy sheet of paper on which she was painfully drawing a crooked, black line. 'Twas torture to watch her work, her lips so compressed, a deep pucker on her usually smooth brow as she slowly printed the let- ters Charles River by the side of the crooked black line. Not a thought had ever come to that child that she would sometime see that line in reality and that it would not seem so crooked then. . 'Twas a cool autumn evening when I left the house and made my way briskly through the crowded, noisy streets, through the unpleasant pressing atmosphere towards the grassy banks of the Charles River. What a change, a pleasant change one can get by taking a few steps forward! There, before me, as I stood by an old green bench, I saw the shiny waters of the Charles River in all their glory, peaceful and undisturbed by the tooting horns of the motor cars and the low rumbling of the tram-car wheels, as if they wished to get out quickly from this place, grumbling in their annoy- ance for the delay. What beautiful reflections on the other side of the river where the smoky factory buildings stand! They are so different in the eve- nings with only dark distant outlines forming their structure and their windows softly lighted, like some pearls that dimly shine from under the dark folds of some dowager's velvet dress. Such nu- merous colors are reflected in the tranquil waters, mingling with the bright lights of the street lamps, black, yellow, red - and somewhere -- peeping through some dark corner is a delicate tint of blue -or dark green. The numerous lights of the cars as they speed swiftly along the busy banks opposite me seem like daring torches. As I look at their bright reflections in the Charles, it somehow carries me back into the sombre past - perhaps one thousand years before Christ first saw light on earth. Indeed, as l watched, it appeared as if a long procession was passing by, somehow the thought of Druids comes to my mind, as I see their far-off torches burning brightly on the solitude of the night. The moon seems to look upon it coldly. It stays in one place, partly silver and partly gold. I do not see its reflection in the river, nor that of the single star that twinkles merrily in the measureless sky, distant and serene like a tiny jewel on a velvet cushion. Farther off, I can see the dark outline of a man as he gazes musingly at the river. I wonder what his thoughts are . . . Is he seeing the luring beauty of the Charles or are his thoughts sad and dark?

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'Review 'I I MUSIC PICTURES T is very possible that if I ever told a music lover of the ultra-extreme type that I sometimes see music rather than hear it, he would form the firm conviction that I am a case for a psychoanalyst. Strange as this statement may seem to the casual hearer, it is nevertheless perfectly logical when re- garded in the right light. Who can hear beautiful music without, perhaps subconsciously, seeing a picture in its melody? If one has a vivid imagination, as well as a love for music, it is very easy for the picture evoked by music to become so clear that the music becomes, as it were, a mere background to the imagined scene. I can never hear Debussy's exquisite Clair de Lune without seeing, in my mind's eye, a great Egyptian temple, and, dancing before its altar, a single rapt maiden clad in flowing robes, her hair streaming down over her arms. Is not a picture like that, beautiful in itself, clear enough to stand out as a listener's impression of the immortal lovely music? Then I challenge any music lover, especially a devotee of the opera, to hear the brilliant and stir- ring Ride of the Valkyrie without seeing a rush- ing scene flare into being in his mind. I can see a whirling wind raging around a bloody battlefield, and on the wind I see horses ridden by the great goddesses of Valhalla, swooping down with their triumphant Ho yo to ho ! to take back to the home of the immortal gods those men who have fought bravely and well. There are so many pictures! I can never hear a Chopin mazurka or waltz without seeing a band of sylphides in their white ballet skirts dancing joy- ously and freely in a stage woodland, their lovely arms waving in beautifully symmetrical patterns. The wild Fire Dance brings a picture of a madly gyrating witch doctor leaping and twisting around a red and purple fire. If I am queer, it is unfortunate, but as I can get so much more out of music by my melody-visions, I am satisfied. BERTHA HUMEZ, '40. THE TWENTIETH CENTURY ABRAHAM , 1.1Nco1.N OWN the dark, rain-swept alley drifted two large, wet umbrellas. Reaching a dimly lighted doorway, they passed momentarily, then slowly descended, revealing us, two quaking quiz- zers. Here was our goal, the Boston Opera House, and we had only to wait a few minutes to realize the peak of our ambitions, an interview with the star of Abe Lincoln in Illinois himself, Ray- mond Massey. In the cramped quarters of his dressing-room, the actor, a former gunnery master at Princeton and Yale, became the target of a barrage of ques- tions fired by his interviewers. No, he said, nervously dpuliing a cigarette. Even though the author an I are old friends and I have wanted to play Lincoln for a long time, I never would have attempted this part without the background of my Massachusetts ancestry. Sandburg's Life of Lincoln and a few other books helped me in studying the unknown phases of Lincoln's life. Hesitatingly, we asked, Do you think that Lincoln has any counterpart in literature ? No, he began, and our hopes nearly fell, I don't believe so, unless perhaps Hamlet. They both have the same melancholia, the same reluc- tance to face reality. I don't try to bring this sad- ness outg that's an interesting question, though. Pride then warmed us as we glanced around the small room, littered with costumes, grease- paint, wigs, props, whiskers, and putty for arti- Hcial noses! On the perennial question of stage vs. screen, he seemed to be neutral. To him there is an everpresent reality on the stage, yet the treatment in the motion pictures is more explicit. One is actualg the other, an impression. From our scribbles we learned: the Boston au- diences are fairly er-er-reticent . . . The size of the Boston Opera House makes it necessary for an actor to throw his voice a great deal . . . There is no special formula for early stage suc- cess-Mr. Massey just went and got a job . . . His make up, putty nose, whiskers, shaggy wig, takes nearly 45 minutes to apply . . . This war will have a great effect on the theatre . . . Usu- ally, audiences appreciate the plot rather than the character . . . So far, Mr. Massey has no future plan. He lives, so he says, from day to day, from hand to mouth . . . When Mr. Massey learned that we had not seen the play, his wife graciously gave us seats for the superb performance. This play, by Robert E. Sherwood, is the greatest we have ever seen, and we wish it, and all those who have made it great, con- tinued success. It escapes the dullness of the average historical play by presenting its point not as a sermon but as a human drama. JUNE JACKSON, '41. MARGARET MILLER, '41. . ni .... fe. 1. -gl? li A lj'