undoubtedly to fortify the victory for liberty and justice which is not even yet any too secure. In the second place, Germany has been made to realize that the United States, notwithstanding President Wilson's strange policy of attempting the double rôle of belligerent and mediator, is not neutral and cannot be depended upon to make it easy for Germany to escape the just consequences of her misdeeds. That too is a gain. It helps to remove one of the chief obstacles which France has encountered in securing safeguards for herself and for the rest of Europe.

These gains, however, are psychological, and what the world needs now is something tangible. Psychology alone will not rebuild ruined towns, restore to use inundated mines, set factories to running, re-establish commerce, or vindicate the public law of nations. Until Germany does what she has promised to do the burden which Germany's deeds have laid upon others than herself will continue to rest on her victims. That burden must be shifted from the shoulders that are unjustly bearing it, if destroyed towns are to be rebuilt, flooded mines rendered accessible, and commerce renewed.

Two years ago Germany promised to assume the burden that belongs to her. Now she promises to keep that promise. The nations do not crave any more promises from Germany. What they want is performance. They want her to disarm according to the Treaty. They want her to try her real war criminals. They want her to pay, not in promises, but in real wealth, reparation.

The Allies have worked out a plan by which Germany can pay. The amount of the debt, which is less than the amount of damage she inflicted, is set at something over $33,000,000,000.

Of course Germany cannot pay this at once. She has not the wealth available. She must therefore bond herself to pay it. On July 1 she must hand to the Reparation Commission three billion dollars' worth of bonds to bear interest from May 1, and on November 1 she must hand nine and one-half billion dollars' worth more.

These first two series of bonds must pay five per cent. In addition there must be paid over to the Reparation Commission a sum equivalent to twentysix per cent of all German exports. The guaranties for the interest payments and for the additional charge calculated on the exports are to consist of the entire proceeds of the German maritime and land customs, of taxes, or of any other available public revenues.

The bonds are to be distributed among the Allies, which can sell them to private individuals or retain them in their treasuries. The bonds, it is expected,

will be amortized in thirty-seven years from the day of issue.

The administration of this plan is intrusted to an international Committee on Guaranties. This is not unprecedented. In 1881 the Turkish Government, which could not meet its liabilities, was placed in the hands of an international debt commission, which received and distributed to bondholders certain proportion of the moneys derived from the Turkish excise duties and other funds. On a very much smaller scale the American Government has acted as a sort of debt commission for Santo Domingo, meeting the demands of Santo Domingo's creditors from funds derived from Dominican customs. This is the plan. The world will feel easier when it begins to work. As an initial settlement, Germany has agreed to pay on June 1 about a quarter of a billion dollars.

If Germany should fail to keep her promises, Allied forces will occupy German territory. It is therefore necessary for France and the other Allies to continue to mount guard. The French, who with reason have little faith in any German promise, regard their proposed

occupancy of the Ruhr District as merely postponed. It is certain that the only assurance the world has rests upon the clear-headed and undismayed French.

T

LILIOM

HE Theater Guild has placed the theater-goers of the metropolis under a heavy debt this past winter, for it has produced a series of notable plays adequately staged and more than adequately acted. The Guild is a group of professional actors, producers, artists, and executives who have banded together for the production of good plays. The Guild is self-supporting and looks to no philanthropist for sustenance. It is a healthy organization, which justifiably lays claim to high dramatic ideals, but which, thank Heaven, lays no claim to a monopoly of artistic ambitions; wherein it shows in brilliant contrast to some of the small groups who are now attempting to "uplift" the stage.

The latest performance of the Guild is an extraordinary Hungarian play called "Liliom." It is the story of a barker at a merry-go-round, a perfectly useless bully with "a way with him" which

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does not desert his spirit even when confronted by the judgment of Heaven itself.

The story of "Liliom" is not an easy one to tell. Perhaps it is best to refer the reader who is not fortunate enough to have a chance to see this play to the printed edition published by Boni & Liveright. Briefly, however, the prologue shows a street fair, one of the most extraordinarily well-directed scenes of this kind which has been staged in a long time. Liliom, captivator of the hearts of servant girls, is there, in front of the merry-go-round in all the glory of his striped sweater and his blustering youth. Gypsies, soldiers, peasants, townspeople, a vender of balloons, and a strong man all contribute to a colorful hubbub which gives a most effective background for the play which is to follow.

The play tells the story of Liliom's conquest of the heart of a servant girl and of her strange and unacknowledged conquest of his own callous heart. For her he deserts his merry-go-round and side-show and its gypsy owner. He starves her, beats her; he is ashamed of nothing except of acknowledging the hold which she has upon him. When he learns that she is to be a mother, he consents to a murder in order that he may take her and his child in comfort to America-and murder is a crime which is not a natural one for his brutal yet cowardly nature.

But the murder is not to be. He is trapped by the police and commits suicide. Haled before a fantastic court in an unbelievable heaven, his spirit refuses to acknowledge his crimes, and he is sentenced to fifteen years in purgatory, the gate of which he enters jauntily puffing a cigarette which he has borrowed from an attendant of the celestial court.

He

At the end of fifteen years he is permitted to return to earth in order that he may perform some deed which will wipe out the record of his past. finds his wife and daughter in a humble cottage. Try as he will to express his longing for their happiness, he succeeds only in quarreling with his wife and striking his daughter. He is taken back to the celestial court by two policemen of the beyond, to what fate the spectator is left uninformed, except by the fact that the bewildered child tells her mother that the harsh blow that she has received did not hurt, but felt strangely like a kiss!

Surely, the play is as unusual as much which has come from the pen of Sir James Barrie, though it is fantastic and bizarre where Barrie is humorous and whimsical. Its exotic flavor has not been lost in translation from the original of its Hungarian author, Franz Molnar.

“T

A DAY OFF

HERE is nothing that clears the cobwebs so effectually out of one's brain as a day off," the Young-Old Philosopher was saying. "Just as we plan our work, we should plan our play; only, most of us, in the clamor of the times, forget that to loaf occasionally is as necessary as to drudge; and we confuse leisure with laziness.

"I know in my own case how difficult it is for me to make up my mind, definitely and unbendingly, that I require, now and then, a morning away from my desk; that it is as essential as the turning out of decent copy. Spiritual baths we crave and need; baptisms in the elemental things—in the wind and rain on a day dripping with sunlight.

"Once when I was in a beautiful country place, I remember how I planned all one summer that I would rise with the lark some morning and see the miracle of the sunrise. Living as I do in a crowded city, I have no time and no inclination-and, tragically enough, no facilities-for a glimpse of the sun coming up at dawn; for the sky-scrapers would hide his face for hours, and I am not in a high window where I could view his bright countenance. But though I said that I would certainly give myself the tonic experience of witnessing Old Sol's brilliant début, I never did it. I slept each morning until seven o'clock or so, always pretending that to-morrow surely would be the day of days, and that nothing would deter me then. And so the weeks drifted on, and autumn came too soon, alas!-and I was driven back to town without once indulging in the luxury of looking upon such wonder. Why is it that we thus delude and fool and cheat ourselves, fail to take advantage of such pleasing and exhilarating experiences?

"Another time I visited a lake in the northern part of New York, and, struck by the beauty of the summer foliage that adorned the trees down to the water's very edge, I said to a friend, "This must be glorious in October. Let us come together then and see it.' And we made a solemn compact; it remains unkept to this day, and nine years have hurried by. There was no good reason why we should not have made the pilgrimage; but we just didn't. Fools, you say? Certainly. I admit it. And seldom am I more ashamed than when I break my word with myself. A friend forgives one; we do not find it easy to forgive ourselves, to erase those personal debts which we pile up with our own inner spirits.

"So the day off that means so much to us, mentally and physically, why are we afraid to take it when the opportunity arrives? I like nothing better than to see, in the big town, a group of

middle-aged men hastening out in a motor on some crisp morning, their golf-sticks piled beside them, while others trudge to dreary tasks. They have earned their liberty, no doubt-let us hope so, at any rate; and they will be all the better to-morrow for those few hours of delightful sport and healthgiving freedom.

"Too soon the curtain is rung down on this glowing world we live in; and it is heartbreaking to consider how many spots there are close at our gates which we never find the time to see and enjoy. Partly it is our own fault. The green earth cries out to us to come and tread the corridors of the countryside; instead, we cling to the granite of the city, and pace desolate hallways-the more desolate because they are crowded with people we do not know. And all of them are hurrying-where?

"I wonder. And so, no doubt, do they."

THE RAILWAY AS PHOTOGRAPHER TOWADAYS the railway man does

N°

something more than oil and repair locomotives, run trains, keep roadbeds in repair, and prepare timetables. He also takes photographs.

This is because the modern railway man has come to a broad understanding of his function. He is not merely a transmogrified bus driver. He is a merchant. He sells transportation, as a piano dealer sells pianos, and he desires to make his product attractive. The beautiful casing of a piano does not add to its musical qualities, but it makes the prospective purchaser pleased with it in advance and contented with it after he purchases it. A photograph does not transport a passenger or make his journey safe, but it pleases the prospective traveler and adds an element to his journey which makes it more valuable to him both in anticipation and in memory.

But the railway man is even more than a merchant. He is as truly as an officer of the Government a social servant. Civilization is a product of travel. Whoever not only promotes travel but helps to give it significance is a leader in civilization. And this is what the railway man does.

It is in this capacity, not merely as a merchandiser of motion, but as an enlarger of the environment of men and teacher of what travel has to offer to men's minds and souls, that the railway man employs the camera.

Thus it happens that when The Outlook wished to give to its readers a graphic survey in brief of many parts of America it turned to the great railway lines and there found the pictures reproduced on the following pages.