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

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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'

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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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8 The Cambridge SUZANNE, THERE was no doubt about it, David, Crown Prince of all the Russias, was very happy. Swinging his cane gaily and whistling a popular tune, he looked little like a prince. He was dressed as well as any young Bof1levardiere,' and why shouldn't he? He was little more than that. For David was young, David was free. His father was Czar and David preferred to let him worry about the government. Some day he would have to rule Russia, unless some Bolshevist or Anar- chist took care of him. Until that day arrived, however, the Prince was going to have his way. Czardom was re-established in 1952. Nicholas, Czar, ruled well, but in a country like Russia, how can one man be popular with everyone? There were Bolshevists, Anarchists, Socialists, Communists, and every other kind of fanatic. One of these had only to pull the trigger to start a Republican revolt against monarchy. Even such a fate as this did not worry David, as he executed his commission. He walked through the Government Building searching for the office of Chief Counsellor Nardoff. He did not notice a solitary scrubwoman, waxing one of the Hoors. She had seen him when he entered, she had poured nearly the whole bottle of wax over her floor and rubbed it in, briskly. Then as he approached, she rose. Is the Hoor dry? Half the people of Mos- cow never recognized him, and the other half didn't know he existed. Yes, quite dry, the girl quickly replied with a strange gleam in her eye. He proceeded, re- plete with dignity which he soon lost along with his balance. Not only did he fall, but he slipped along the surface for ten feet while the girl shook with rather malicious laughter. Attracted by the commotion, Counsellor Nardoif hurried to assist the Prince and to apprehend the criminal, both of whom he escorted into his ofhce to avoid the gathering crowd. Are you sure that Your Highness is quite un- hurt? he cried solicitously, the moment the door was shut. I am perfectly all right, David assured him, but the defendant seems to have a grudge against me. You should be thankful, the girl remarked, as she insolently sank into a chair, that it was I who saw you rather than an Anarchist, he would have thrown a bomb, while I satisfied myself with seeing you lose your dignity. Young lady, why did you wish to cause the loss of my precious dignity? he asked. CZAMNA Because you caused the loss of mine! Because your father's filthy bodyguards murdered my' father! She was crying unrestrainedly now, on the arm of the chair. t Yes . . . yes! . murmured David softly. I re- member you now. Suzanne, the girl who aspired to the throne of Russia. You and your Bolshevist compatriots who clutched the monarchy by the throat tried to murder my father, the logical heir to the throne, but his protectors shot the whole wretched mob! They did that deed in justice! NO, No! she cried frantically. , In justice, I tell you! he repeated. Then he began to muse. Alexandrina Catherine Suzanne Lezensky, why, if you desire so passionately to play fhe great lady of Russia, do you not arrange to have my father and me murdered, then your Bolshevist friends could seize the rule again. You would probably marry Alexander as his Queen, Queen to an imitation Czar. I marry that weak, tremulous braggart! Never! If he stood in your way, you could remove him as well as us. She was tired, weak, unhappy. I could kill no one, if I were ruthless, my weapon should have been a dagger rather than a can of wax. Having dried her eyes, Suzanne looked up at the desk. A door has just opened softly behind David, a man with a pistol ready for action ap- peared, a man whom Suzanne recognized as her cousin, a member of her band. Assassination! She should be glad! XVhy wasn't she? She was frightened, horrified, and in that moment she screamed. The shriek came in time to warn the prince, who turned and grappled with the would' be assassin. In a minute, the guards arrived, and taking the prisoner in their charge, they divested him of his gun. Well, my,dear, smiled David, looking slightly less like a well-dressed gentleman, you hate me, yet you save me. I am puzzled, but grateful. I am afraid, the girl whispered when she was alone with David once more. It is horrible for I save my enemy's life and fear my friendsf: XVhy do you fear them P They will find out that I have betrayed Di- mitri, the assassin, I cannot escape. Do not be afraid. David was suddenly very kind. You shall come to my royal home. There you will see how a Czarina might live. Perhaps I can reform your warped ideas and show you that our principles are the real, honest ones. At any rate, I shall try. Will you come?