University of Santa Clara - Redwood Yearbook (Santa Clara, CA)

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3% JlSaicIjer bg ti t £ m Lone is my heart as I scan the sea; Hear it roar like a beast of prey! When its savagery dies it is weird and low, And it speaks in an awesome way Of its hate---in a menacing way. Fiercely it leaps on the rock-ribbed shore, It is bursting with lust for wrong. Yet my fear grows less when it ceases to roar--- There is pity, then, in its song, In the wild, wild strain of its song. When the moon comes down in the arms of night, O ' er the myriads whom life has fled, To dance in glee on the waves, its light Mocks the ships and their frightful dead, All the sunken ships with their dead. Long years have passed, yet day after day I watch on the cliffs by the sea. O savage winds, O ye waves, I pray, Bring him back once again to me, Oh, restore my beloved to me. — Richard Hassler, ' 28 25

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Papini, really, could the Roman soldier have described Christ, as he pressed forward to strike Him in the face. Doubtless it was a scoffer who, amid the unexpressive crowd, found and exclaimed that ultimate word on Calvary ' s ultimate wretchedness: Vermis non homo — He is a worm and not a man. He could not have heard the answer from the Cross: Behold, how I have loved you. Papini was a scoffer against the Cross, before he joined that Church which is of the Cross. It is curious to see him — among the crusaders, and pointed the other way now — but still scoffing. He has changed sides, but not weapons, and he uses the sword Intolerance to cleave his enemies. This is a doubtful way of getting rid of the enemies, for — to change the figure — Intolerance is frantic and the enemy is calm, Intol- erance is impulsive and the enemy has taken thought. It is doubtful, too, if Papini ' s attitude encourage reliance. The suggestion — however ill-founded — is of one not yet proven and sure. Why hasten thy speech ? And do you not trust that truth will surely be heard at the end, even to the last syllable? What we have said, be it remembered, is what the art of letters may have to say about a work whose object, after all, is not artistic, but apos- tolic. Like St. Paul, the book has travelled far and done good. If it has not escaped a share of Paul ' s buffetings, in the form of criticisms, it can yet turn them to its own profit. Art chastens to save, and though it even chasten here, does not presume, but has a place and an authority over the prophet even as over the poet. Was it not the use of words that the Paraclete inspired the apostles? The apostle preaches, and preach- ing is an art. Then, if art detain the apostle, who would pass on to his great business, it is yet not for her own selfish vindication, but in order that she may minister to him, to make his good better — find words for him, lest truth itself be unheard. —Albert J. Steiss, ' 26. 24

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©lb frfrofrttclj LD Petrovitch ' s wife was dying, but he took no interest in the matter. As he sat by her bed he felt no sense of grief, for one thing filled his soul to the exclusion of all else — hatred, hatred of Russia his fatherland. Nor was his hatred without cause. He had once been a man of importance, had risked his life more than once in the service of the Czar. But he had listened to the voice of love, love for this woman whose life was now ebbing fast, a woman fair of form, in youth, and vir- tuous, but of peasant birth; and the way to honor had been barred to him, and his friends had abandoned him and his Imperial Master had forgotten him. He might drift along a non-entity, but Russia would never know him more. When their child was born, he and his peasant wife carrying with them the remnants of his fortune, abandoned Russia, hoping on a sheep ranch in far off Queensland to obtain forgetfulness and peace. The first years had brought a measure of success, for the difficulties of his new life absorbed his attention and the love of wife and child were balm to his heart. But as time went on and his struggles diminished and leisure gave him more opportunity for thought, the past came back with all its bitterness and aroused to fever heat the slumbering passions of his soul. His very wife and child added to his torment. In her lack of culture his mind found no response. He had thought to lift her to his mental plane; he found by experience that he must sink to hers. When he spoke of his wrongs she would listen with patience and a degree of sympathy. But there were two thoughts rooted in her peasant mind that prevented any approach to a perfect accord between them. To her the soil of Rus- sia was ever sacred; and the thought that the Little Father could do wrong was ranked with blasphemy. His courtiers, his counsellors and officials might be scamps; yes, she had known some of them; but the Little Father she had reverenced with unquestioning faith from earliest childhood. Nothing could shake her confidence in him. That she her- self had been the source of trouble made but a faint impression upon her. She herself had bettered her condition by the marriage; she had never known ambition save in its most primitive and elementary form. All else eluded her grasp and puzzled her brain. Why worry about things that could not be mended. Her husband was a good man but his ideas were strange and his temper uncontrollable. The boy naturally grew up in the care of his mother. He loved and esteemed his father, but he saw hi m in great part through his mother ' s eyes. Moroseness does not attract the heart or inspire confidence. The fits of Petrovitch therefore cemented more and more the sympathies of mother and son. The child grew up devoted to the sacred soil of Russia, 26