Indianapolis Times, Volume 41, Number 92, Indianapolis, Marion County, 27 August 1929 — Page 11

AUG. 27, 1929.

oT T ~ r'P-? AY

X * 'X /oat "Z- ACv/lV YvT \ /Nova wamt me V. / AH \/\ X X /-r \ajc?\te fer wAM -r w\ff of psX— A V;t*‘i rcNpOMDEMCE. / FER VOMf il ljA / V.MHW OR—VsfvW, # 1•!' y \ \C\-< / VOU CA\m’T ' 'Nlj-'fcq^Br-^v \ REAO .ER /X ' xXXa ' 'X A "Xv VM CR\TE: . P ; i'' < : A?'? X XX X_-/Xr —;x ~ -LX/ X / ''/ ,7 M6.usmt.WT. REPOES APE MAQE - NOT 60PM. Cim.rHmwwct.wc. J

TUHININ&aTALE/'IT / £>y ELEANOR EARLY OW 29 "By AE.Ajervice live.

CHAPTER XXXlX—(Continued) The thing had been taking shape in her mind for some time. Gradually. Hazily. Like a furtive dream, full of vague shapes and shadowy substance. The story of a woman who had loved and lost. A woman who had bartered romance for a career and hated the career, and longed for love. It. must be a beautiful book, beautifully written. The heart cry of a lonely woman. She must find lovely words, and magnificent phrases, i And she must blend them exquisitely, so the whole should be perfect. The delineation of a woman’s life. A passionate woman, passionately seeking. Seeking the things of existence. The cheap, trumpery, tawdry things. Fame, and money, and thrills. Satisfaction unto satiety. And —when she was sated—this woman, who had turned her back j on love, would be lonely. And, in ! her desolation, she would cry with j the prophet, “AH is vanity and vexation of spirit.” For Molly meant, in her book, to show that the things of life are as nothing. And only the white-hot flame of love has power to comfort, and to heal. It would be a difficult thing to write. Difficult, because it would be the baring of her own innermost existence. No longer should she keep silence to cloak her wounds. She would write her confession of j failure, that all who would might read. a a e FIRED with sudden determination, she began work with fervid enthusiasm. Until dawn, the keys of her little pink typewriter flew up and down beneath her fingers. She would call her book “Ashes of Desire.” And her heroine should he named Lalun. When Molly was quite a smal girl, she had two favorite names. .One was Lalun. And the ; other was Jale. She intended, in ; those days, to have twins, and j named them Lalun and Jale. Jale i is a Turkish name, and means dewdrop. Molly never knew what Lalun meant, but it didn't make any difference. It was a beautiful name, and. since she was never to have twins now. she might as well use it somehow. It seemed mor appropriate for the heroine of a tragic novel than Jale. because tragic heroines seldom suggest dewdrops. Lalun had an intriguing sound that might mean almost anything. She had a hard time getting the first chapter started. It was different than writing plays. All you had to think of for a play was action Action and dialogue. But with a novel like “Ashes of Desire” one must be whimsical. Tender. Profound. Molly went to her book shelves, to see how other authors did. There was George Moore's ‘Sisters Teresa,” which was, also, the study of a woman's life. Molly turned to the opening page: “She was conscious of her indolence: within and without her there was a strange, lifeless calm, a strange inactivity in the air and in her mind. In the landscape and in her there seemed no before and no hereafter. But a glance inwards revealed to her the ripple of some hidden anticipation moving under the sullen surface.” Molly loved introspective stuff. Lalun must be introsnective. She wondered if it would be plagiarism, if she should begin. “Lalu was conscious of her own futility: within and without her there was emptiness ...” She considered a moment, and then began, swiftly, to type. Before she stopped. Lalu had became a living breathing woman. A creature of fire and of promise. And because she was beautiful she was beloved, of course. The man who loved her was six feet one. He had dark hair, and eyes to match. Laughing eyes. And a very strong, determined chin. His hair had a little wave in it, and his chin had a dimple. Moliv took the sheet out of the typewriter, to read what she had written about the man who was Lalu's lover. “Good heavens!” she thought, •I've described Jack Wells!” . . . And eo she had. It was like a portrait. CHAPTEI#XL THERE is a story about the younger Dumas, and how he shut himself up in a garrett, and wrote a book in no time at all. Vic-

tor Hugo is said to have done something of the same sort. And there is a lesser novelist who took a vow neither to shave nor to bathe until he completed his book. The chances are, however, that — in point of time —Molly beat them all. She scarcely slftpt until “Ashes of Desire” was completed. Once, when she was a reporter, she interviewed Miss Amy Lowell, the poetess. Miss Lowell did all her work at night, writing in bed, propped up by sixteen feather pillows. She drew the curtains against the sunlight, and tacked black cloths over the mirrors. Because the creative fire, she said, burned more brightly at night-time, or under artificial light. “Try it, my dear,” she advised. “And never forget that genius is nine-tenths work. You've got to sweat for success.” Molly had remembered - . Like Miss Lowell, she turned night into day, working while others slept. She plugged her telephone bell, and told Mary she was at home to no one. She grew pale and thin. And her eyes took on a peculiar green light, and looked huge, and a trifle wild. She drank quarts of black coffee, and cared nothing for substantial food. She withheld herself from even Rita, vowing that nothing should interfere with the completion of her greatest work. Once, when Red Flynn came—and refused to leave until he had seen her —she begged him not to be disappointed in her when her book proved unpopular. “Oh, it will be popular all right,” he assured her, “Everything you do is a wow.” “But this is different.” she explained. “ ‘Ashes of Desire’ will never be popular. I don’t want, it to be. I want just to speak simply, truly, to the few’ who will understand. I never want again what the world means when it says success.” Red started at her, uncomprehending. “What?” he asked Inelegantly. “What in blazes is eating you?” “I mean it,." she insisted. “I am trying now to be true to the real things.” ‘You look like the devil,” he Interrupted, scowling at her paleness. “My work is done,” she told him gently, “in grief and pain. Yet I must write, or die.” He shrugged contemptuously, j “You're getting arty,” he accused, j “Success has gone to your head, i You'rp going temperamental. Snap ! out. of it, old thing.” I “Please leave me,” she besought. a a a HE went away angrily, because he thought she was posing. But. worried, also, because she was thin ! and white. And. since he could do ; nothing about it. that made him ! angrier still. Molly watched him from her window, drawing the shade aside cautiously. He did not look back, but stepped into his old car. slamming the door furiously, and driving away in a clatter of rollicking fenders and loose bumpers. A week later the manuscript was finished. Molly wrapped it sentimentally in lavender tissue, and tied it with lavender ribbons. Then she carried it herself to her agent. “I'll look at it tonight," the man promised, "and call you first thing in the morning. There'll be no trou- | ble finding a publisher. Os course. | you know that.” But he did not wait until morning. At 10 o'clock he telephoned. “I've read ‘Ashes of Desire.' Miss ; Burnham” (hesitantly and a bit apologetically'. "Yes?” she prompted. “You don't care for It. Mr. Hall?" “It's so unlike anything you've dine!” he protested. I “it's the best thing I've done.” ! “But your public doesn't expect this sort of novel from you. They want you to give them crime. Miss Burnham.” J Molly sighed wearily. “I know. Well, I'm through with j what my public wants. I've given them a book out of my heart. If they don't like it, I don’t care I shall never write another anyhow.” Mr. Hall cleared his throat “It's beautifully done,” he assured her. "But you know yourself what your market is. Miss Burnham. “You've always catered to—er—shall we say—” “I don't care what you say.” she interrupted. "Lowbrows. Morons ... It doesn't make any difference.

—By Williams

But ‘Ashes of Desire’ isn’t for them. It is for the very few—the few who will understand.” “But you must accede to popular demand!” he argued. “Oh, no,” she said. “Not any more. I never intended ‘Ashes of Desire’ to be a popular novel.” “You might jazz it up a little,” he offered hopefully. “Give it a happy ending.” “I’m sony,” she told him pa- j tiently, “that I can not make you understand. I'm being absolutely sincere, Mr. Hall. I don't want to do popular stuff. I’m tired of manufacturing for the trade. I’ve hae enough of catering to the market. I’ve put my heart and soul into something real. And I don’t care whether anyone likes it or not. I had to write it.” “Well. I'll see what I can do.” he | promised. a a SHE wanted to tell him not to bother. That she did not care if he never found her a publisher. That the only thing that mattered was that the book was written, and the truth told. But she knew he would think she was telling lies, if she should talk to him like that. Because it is doubtful if anybody ever wrote anything with the idea j that nobody would read it. She hung up the receiver slowly, wondering w r hy she had written the i book, if it were true that she did | nto care whether it was published. The half-remembered lines of a furtive poem ran tantalizingly through her mind. She thought that if she could recollect them, they would explain why she had felt the necessity of writing something which no one might read. Hours later the lines came to her. They were from Kipling's “L'Envoi.” . . . “And no one shall work for monev. end no one shall work for fame: But each for the joy of working, and each, in his separate star. Shall draw the Thing as he sees It, for the God of Things as They Are!” - Yes. That was it. “And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame.” ... It was not with covetousness for the praise of critics that Molly had written. Nor In fear of the censure of little minds. She had written the Thing as she saw It, for the God of Things as they Are. It w’as with less difficulty than he anticipated that Mr. Hall found a i publisher. And the publisher, with enthusiasm of romanticism, conceived the notion of bringing ou? “Ashes of Desire” after the style of a sentimental eighteenth century novel. When Molly's book made its appearance it was demurely bound in white kid and orchid vellum. Before the title page, and at the beginning of each chapter, was a gold vignette i And the name was written in letter; | of gold, as if by hand, across th~ vellum cover. Critics and artistacclaimed the jacket as the mos charming in many seasons. Its fetching daintiness, they said, suitably heralded the return of romantic Action.

(To Be Continued)

RZAN OF THE APES

A sailor grasped him by the collar and bawled into his ear: “Read it out loud, you blithering idiot” The professor read: THIS IS THE HOUSE OF TARZAN. THE KILLER OF BEASTS AND BLACK MEN. DO NOT HARM THE THINGS WHICH ARE TARZAN'S. TARZAN WATCHES. TARZAN OF THE APES.

THE INDIANAPOLIS TIMES

BOOTS AND HER BUDDIES

/'■jj X U6TEM, LO&OOOS - EOT* CF SKT-THS o^ll ™HME BOOTS A \ RAMS BEEN SMUT IN TOO MUCH ! HOT-WAV AND BABE WERE \T'S CRAfAVIN'ooR STWE ~WAAT OsOWT I P IN A HUDDLE , P® X VOE MEEO \E> A CHANGE - LET ’& i THIN* OF N TEEUW6 SORRY X| / BEAT \T OFF —TO A BEACH f VT S,’ — 1 .Sr VOO OvONT HHNt TO -! BOY 6EE ; 9EOV\PV-l ( PONT BE &\UV -PEOPLE l)"] W\TH HE AROOKO A \ WKj’T HPNt ANY PONT WEAR CLOTHES ON \.:M&> I f.VOTrtFS A BEACH AU. V NEED , fVi e '■ - 1 ftJitWfltuVSlffl * . ~

FRECKLES AND HIS FRIENDS

'*MU£M OA.'i UEARS 7 ) DaA U/*'l£ ) /40/ VO O ROAT ) ’ IW, SOIAS Pow.E. ueu. \ r y ol ) usaud 7y£ \ IT, Oo / 6£ SURPftiSED- I / &AS? Iw j V g°

WASHINGTON TUBBS II

NOSIRI l'M THRO WJITH f TWO NIGHTS IN A \ f too'. THRU! nobopv cam ‘l4 cow.too! i wont ;/ but it u!a<> \i

SA(.USMAN SAM

/ here's somcthin' from he's 'N (KisWft eejvr this,mrs.<so_? AVaKw?IMPOSSIBLE ’ t know it- but hes Hl*mv UP WHERE. ITS COLO- ) VJRITIM' PER SAM SENT US A PIcTuRF. OF J HEE ON IK BEEN IN THE. (ARC DCS A ~ T ~ j BUli oMe caust ee from saw- J money- himself - he's in the (Arcites/ <?on& six D(ays* tusv th shme.- 3 H nxe/m'K .1.... - . im or

MOM’N POP

"FTioWS That V SSOOK TeoOT') WHERE \ V GST THE Y cWICK? YOO-HOO* )

The thought uppermost in their minds was: “Who is Tarzan of the Apes?” The rat-faced sailor growled out an insulting oath! The young man's face paled in anger. “You’ve murdered our officers and robbed us,” he said. "Now shut up or I'll break your neck with my bare hands.” %

—By Martin

He deliberately turned his back upon the sailor and walked away. The sailor's hand crept slyly to his revolver. His eyes glared vengefully. . . . Two keen eyes had watched every move of the party from a nearby tree. Tarzan saw the surprise caused by his notice and now watched the quarrel.

OUR BOARDING HOUSE

f~~\S - TU4TTM’TRE*IcM egap -i'll prepare^—You re maioal<3ls STYLE OF COOKING M Voii A "TYPICAL PARIS I A PARLOR SAME, n Potatoes sHakialo T PIJ^ER -^ e J ouToftM’ REST ■’EM ALL OUT o*i Th ’ MAdJMER of A V OF itf' MEAL , floor. Potatoes , \^,i **,but ill frv _ J STEAK! P ) wlONi’T BE A ple/ BlacksmithsiUP, )f APBoM WHelI

C..,- TN){; CCCki ) 7UATS RI6H.T-VOO - ') f— STILL VbONE BR&H iM SCHOOL CMtCLV ) ! ' /nX FOOM uoX \ ANOSTAT MISS VCRS DAY YOONS SSSM OP USRC , TUKRes A / 1 X oNr ' TimS aN 1 j SCHOOL . SCHOOL StFOE’t YOKE LVRS TWaT \ ( 1 QtcWc , U L X A MAN THINGS NO school ROOM CAM ) ® & X E q/, W X / X'—'X f 6NER T£ach FR&SH AIR - SRY - STARS- \ I 7 ccm \ mountains -birds-animals --rotes- i; TIML FOQ j . STREAMS AND A MILLION OTHER j i SCHOOL WHEN y 7UINSS - AND T ATTEND CLASS EUERY '' Bl WF MM

x'-" V,f more. BUT IF AHITHiNO AMOTh&R CHANCT, jGOOD MAN, AMO Y HER / please! \ happens again tonight, guvnor -to night, j here is a princelv tonight, JOST ONE \ 61G BOY, VOU'RE THRU ——— ? " t REWARD FOR TOUR/ HE? \ more K-—7 for keeps, j —' <. * V trouble- i UA—not l CHANCE.) 7-- v IF WE CAM

tSinemA f V<HERC ON EARTh'I ri[eft THEM L 1 COULD they have] right were /i saw a, disappeared/ by This Them ThEOE. T 'o “? j % . \ ;/v\ x .1 a i w I 0. - \ . /4,1

The act of the rat-faced sailor in killing his comrade, the dav before, had aroused a strong dislike in Tarzan. He liked the fine-looking young man. But now he naturally expected to see the young man murdered. Spear in hand, his mighty right arm was ready to strike.

—By Edgar Rice Burroughs

Then thr°e things happened, almost simultaneously. The sailor leveled his weapon at the young mans back, the girl screamed a warning, and a long spear shot like a bolt from above. II passed through the man's right shoulder. and the seaman crumpled up with a scream of pain and error.

PAGE 11

—By Ahem

—By Blosser

—By Crane

.-5 mall

—By Taylor