And before him sat the lady who belonged in the room. Cool and sweet and unchangeable she was. She offered no surprises. If one should pass his life with her, though she might grow white-haired and wrinkled, he would never perceive the change. Three years he had been away from her, and she was still waiting for him as established and constant as the house itself. He was sure that she had once cared for him. It was the knowledge that she would always do so that had driven him away. Thus his thoughts ran.
"I am going to be married soon," said Mary.
On the next Thursday afternoon Forster came hurriedly to Ive's hotel.
"Old man," said he, "we'll have to put that dinner off for a year or so; I'm going abroad. The steamer sails at four. That was a great talk we had the other night, and it decided me. I'm going to knock around the world and get rid of that incubus that has been weighing on both you and me - the terrible dread of knowing what's going to happen. I've done one thing that hurts my conscience a little; but I know it's best for both of us. I've written to the lady to whom I was engaged and explained everything - told her plainly why I was leaving - that the monotony of matrimony would never do for me. Don't you think I was right?"
"It is not for me to say," answered Ives. "Go ahead and shoot elephants if you think it will bring the element of chance into your life. We've got to decide these things for ourselves. But I tell you one thing, Forster, I've found the way. I've found out the biggest hazard in the world - a game of chance that never is concluded, a venture that may end in the highest heaven or the blackest pit. It will keep a man on edge until the clods fall on his coffin, because he will never know - not until his last day, and not then will he know. It is a voayge without a rudder or compass, and you must be captain and crew and keep watch, every day and night, yourself, with no one to relieve you. I have found the VENTURE. Don't bother yourself about leaving Mary Marsden, Forster. I married her yesterday at noon."
The Whirligig of Life
JUSTICE-OF-THE-PEACE Benaja Widdup sat in the door of his office smoking his elder-stem pipe. Halfway to the zenith the Cumberland range rose blue-gray in the afternoon haze. A speckled hen swaggered down the main street of the "settlement," cackling foolishly.
Up the road came a sound of creaking axles, and then a slow cloud of dust, and then a bull-cart bearing Ransie Bilbro and his wife. The cart stopped at the Justice's door, and the two climbed down. Ransie was a narrow six feet of sallow brown skin and yellow hair. The imperturbability of the mountains hung upon him like a suit of armour. The woman was calicoed, angled, snuff-brushed, and weary with unknown desires. Through it all gleamed a faint protest of cheated youth unconscious of its loss.
The Justice of the Peace slipped his feet into his shoes, for the sake of dignity, and moved to let them enter.
"We-all," said the woman, in a voice like the wind blowing through pine boughs, "wants a divo'ce." She looked at Ransie to see if he noted any flaw or ambiguity or evasion or partiality or self-partisanship in her statement of their business.
Monday, November 26, 2012
Up above
Up above, however, when Mathieu was on the point of turning into the communicating passage, he paused once more, this time near the lift. It was there, fourteen years previously, that Morange, finding the trap open, had gone down to warn and chide the workmen, while Constance, according to her own account, had quietly returned into the house, at the very moment when Blaise, coming from the other end of the dim gallery, plunged into the gulf. Everybody had eventually accepted that narrative as being accurate, but Mathieu now felt that it was mendacious. He could recall various glances, various words, various spells of silence; and sudden certainty came upon him, a certainty based on all the petty things which he had not then understood, but which now assumed the most frightful significance. Yes, it was certain, even though round it there hovered the monstrous vagueness of silent crimes, cowardly crimes, over which a shadow of horrible mystery always lurks. Moreover, it explained the sequel, those two bodies lying below, as far, that is, as logical reasoning can explain a madman's action with all its gaps and mysteriousness. Nevertheless, Mathieu still strove to doubt; before anything else he wished to see Constance.
Showing a waxy pallor, she had remained erect, motionless, in the middle of her little drawing-room. The waiting of fourteen years previously had begun once more, lasting on and on, and filling her with such anxiety that she held her breath the better to listen. Nothing, no stir, no sound of footsteps, had yet ascended from the works. What could be happening then? Was the hateful thing, the dreaded thing, merely a nightmare after all? Yet Morange had really sneered in her face, she had fully understood him. Had not a howl, the thud of a fall, just reached her ears? And now, had not the rumbling of the machinery ceased? It was death, the factory silent, chilled and lost for her. All at once her heart ceased beating as she detected a sound of footsteps drawing nearer and nearer with increased rapidity. The door opened, and it was Mathieu who came in.
She recoiled, livid, as at the sight of a ghost. He, O God! Why he? How was it he was there? Of all the messengers of misfortune he was the one whom she had least expected. Had the dead son risen before her she would not have shuddered more dreadfully than she did at this apparition of the father.
She did not speak. He simply said: "They made the plunge, they are both dead--like Blaise."
Then, though she still said nothing, she looked at him. For a moment their eyes met. And in her glance he read everything: the murder was begun afresh, effected, consummated. Over yonder lay the bodies, dead, one atop of the other.
"Wretched woman, to what monstrous perversity have you fallen! And how much blood there is upon you!"
By an effort of supreme pride Constance was able to draw herself up and even increase her stature, still wishing to conquer, and cry aloud that she was indeed the murderess, that she had always thwarted him, and would ever do so. But Mathieu was already overwhelming her with a final revelation.
What were they
"What were they?" asked Holmes eagerly.
"Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain."
"That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the hammer."
"Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot long--one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by the saw."
"A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said Holmes.
White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex him.
"That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world in your memory?"
Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.
"No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who entered the house and killed its master was an American."
MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast," said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at all."
"The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of boots in the corner, the gun!"
"Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't need to import an American from outside in order to account for American doings."
"Ames, the butler--"
"What about him? Is he reliable?"
"Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort in the house."
"The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in the house?"
"Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard."
"Well, I first had the hammer examined. There was Dr. Wood there to help me. We found no signs of violence upon it. I was hoping that if Mr. Douglas defended himself with the hammer, he might have left his mark upon the murderer before he dropped it on the mat. But there was no stain."
"That, of course, proves nothing at all," remarked Inspector MacDonald. "There has been many a hammer murder and no trace on the hammer."
"Quite so. It doesn't prove it wasn't used. But there might have been stains, and that would have helped us. As a matter of fact there were none. Then I examined the gun. They were buckshot cartridges, and, as Sergeant Wilson pointed out, the triggers were wired together so that, if you pulled on the hinder one, both barrels were discharged. Whoever fixed that up had made up his mind that he was going to take no chances of missing his man. The sawed gun was not more than two foot long--one could carry it easily under one's coat. There was no complete maker's name; but the printed letters P-E-N were on the fluting between the barrels, and the rest of the name had been cut off by the saw."
"A big P with a flourish above it, E and N smaller?" asked Holmes.
"Exactly."
"Pennsylvania Small Arms Company--well-known American firm," said Holmes.
White Mason gazed at my friend as the little village practitioner looks at the Harley Street specialist who by a word can solve the difficulties that perplex him.
"That is very helpful, Mr. Holmes. No doubt you are right. Wonderful! Wonderful! Do you carry the names of all the gun makers in the world in your memory?"
Holmes dismissed the subject with a wave.
"No doubt it is an American shotgun," White Mason continued. "I seem to have read that a sawed-off shotgun is a weapon used in some parts of America. Apart from the name upon the barrel, the idea had occurred to me. There is some evidence then, that this man who entered the house and killed its master was an American."
MacDonald shook his head. "Man, you are surely travelling overfast," said he. "I have heard no evidence yet that any stranger was ever in the house at all."
"The open window, the blood on the sill, the queer card, the marks of boots in the corner, the gun!"
"Nothing there that could not have been arranged. Mr. Douglas was an American, or had lived long in America. So had Mr. Barker. You don't need to import an American from outside in order to account for American doings."
"Ames, the butler--"
"What about him? Is he reliable?"
"Ten years with Sir Charles Chandos--as solid as a rock. He has been with Douglas ever since he took the Manor House five years ago. He has never seen a gun of this sort in the house."
"The gun was made to conceal. That's why the barrels were sawed. It would fit into any box. How could he swear there was no such gun in the house?"
"Well, anyhow, he had never seen one."
MacDonald shook his obstinate Scotch head. "I'm not convinced yet that there was ever anyone in the house," said he. "I'm asking you to conseedar" (his accent became more Aberdonian as he lost himself in his argument) "I'm asking you to conseedar what it involves if you suppose that this gun was ever brought into the house, and that all these strange things were done by a person from outside. Oh, man, it's just inconceivable! It's clean against common sense! I put it to you, Mr. Holmes, judging it by what we have heard."
Sunday, November 25, 2012
The Sympahtetic Passenger As Mr
The Sympahtetic Passenger
As Mr. James shut the side door behind him, radio music burst from every window of his house. Agnes, in the kitchen, was tuned in to one station; his wife, washing her hair in the bathroom, to another. The competing programmes followed him to the garage and into the lane. He had twelve miles to drive to the station, and for the first five of them he remained in a black mood. He was in most matters a mild-tempered person—in all matters, it might be said, except one; he abominated the wireless. It was not merely that it gave him no pleasure; it gave active pain, and, in the course of years, he had come to regard the invention as being directed deliberately against himself, a conspiracy of his enemies to disturb and embitter what should have been the placid last years of his life. He was far from being an old man; he was, in fact, in his middle fifties; he had retired young, almost precipitously, as soon as a small legacy had made it possible. He had been a lover of quiet all his life. Mrs. James did not share this preference. Now they were settled in a small country house, twelve miles from a suitable cinema. The wireless, for Mrs. James, was a link with the clean pavements and bright shop windows, a communion with millions of fellow beings. Mr. James saw it in just that light too. It was what he minded most—the violation of his privacy. He brooded with growing resentment on the vulgarity of womankind. In this mood he observed a burly man of about his own age signalling to him for a lift from the side of the road. He stopped. “I wonder if by any chance you are going to the railway station?” The man spoke politely with a low, rather melancholy voice. “I am; I have to pick up a parcel. Jump in.” “That’s very kind of you.” The man took his place beside Mr. James. His boots were dusty, and he sank back in his seat as though he had come from far and was weary. He had very large, ugly hands, close-cut grey hair, a bony, rather sunken face. For a mile or so he did not speak. Then he asked suddenly, “Has this car got a wireless?” “Certainly not.” “What is that knob for?” He began examining the dashboard. “And that?” “One is the self-starter. The other is supposed to light cigarettes. It does not work. If,” he continued sharply, “you have stopped me in the hope of hearing the wireless, I can only suggest that I put you down and let you try your luck on someone else.” “Heaven forbid,” said his passenger. “I detest the thing.” “So do I.” “Sir, you are one among millions. I regard myself as highly privileged in making your acquaintance.” “Thank you. It is a beastly invention.” The passenger’s eyes glowed with passionate sympathy. “It is worse. It is diabolical.” “Very true.” “Literally diabolical. It is put here by the devil to destroy us. Did you know that it spread the most terrible diseases?” “I didn’t know. But I can well believe it.” “It causes cancer, tuberculosis, infantile paralysis, and the common cold. I have proved it.” “It certainly causes headaches,” said Mr. James. “No man,” said his passenger, “has suffered more excruciating headaches than I. “They have tried to kill me with headaches. But I was too clever for them. Did you know that the BBC has its own secret police, its own prisons, its own torture chambers?” “I have long suspected it.” “I know. I have experienced them. Now it is the time of revenge.” Mr. James glanced rather uneasily at his passenger and drove a little faster. “I have a plan,” continued the big man. “I am going to London to put it into execution. I am going to kill the Director-General. I shall kill them all,cheap designer handbags.” They drove on in silence. They were nearing the outskirts of the town when a larger car driven by a girl drew abreast of them and passed. From inside it came the unmistakable sounds of a jazz band. The big man sat up in his seat, rigid as a pointer. “Do you hear that?” he said. “She’s got one. After her, quick.” “No good,” said Mr. James. “We can never catch that car.” “We can try. We shall try, unless,” he said with a new and more sinister note in his voice, “unless you don’t want to.” Mr. James accelerated. But the large car was nearly out of sight. “Once before,” said his passenger, “I was tricked. The BBC sent one of their spies. He was very like you. He pretended to be one of my followers,Designer Handbags; he said he was taking me to the Director-General’s office. Instead he took me to a prison. Now I know what to do with spies. I kill them.” He leaned towards Mr. James. “I assure you, my dear sir, you have no more loyal supporter than myself. It is simply a question of cars. I cannot overtake her. But no doubt we shall find her at the station.” “We shall see. If we do not, I shall know whom to thank, and how to thank him.” They were in the town now and making for the station. Mr. James looked despairingly at the policeman on point duty, but was signalled on with a negligent flick of the hand. In the station yard the passenger looked round eagerly. “I do not see that car,” he said. Mr. James fumbled for a second with the catch of the door and then tumbled out. “Help!” he cried. “Help! There’s a madman here.” With a great shout of anger the man dodged round the front of the car and bore down on him. At that moment three men in uniforms charged out of the station doorway. There was a brief scuffle; then, adroitly, they had their man strapped up. “We thought he’d make for the railway,” said their chief,fake uggs online store. “You must have had quite an exciting drive, sir.” Mr. James could scarcely speak. “Wireless,” he muttered weakly,ugg bailey button triplet 1873 boots. “Ho, he’s been talking to you about that, has he? Then you’re very lucky to be here to tell us. It’s his foible, as you might say. I hope you didn’t disagree with him.” “No,” said Mr. James. “At least, not at first.” “Well, you’re luckier than some. He can’t be crossed, not about wireless. Gets very wild. Why, he killed two people and half killed a third last time he got away. Well, many thanks for bringing him in so nicely, sir. We must be getting him home.” Home. Mr. James drove back along the familiar road. “Why,” said his wife when he entered the house. “How quick you’ve been. Where’s the parcel?” “I think I must have forgotten it.” “How very unlike you. Why, you’re looking quite ill. I’ll run in and tell Agnes to switch off the radio. She can’t have heard you come in.” “No,” said Mr. James, sitting down heavily. “Not switch off radio. Like it. Homely.”
As Mr. James shut the side door behind him, radio music burst from every window of his house. Agnes, in the kitchen, was tuned in to one station; his wife, washing her hair in the bathroom, to another. The competing programmes followed him to the garage and into the lane. He had twelve miles to drive to the station, and for the first five of them he remained in a black mood. He was in most matters a mild-tempered person—in all matters, it might be said, except one; he abominated the wireless. It was not merely that it gave him no pleasure; it gave active pain, and, in the course of years, he had come to regard the invention as being directed deliberately against himself, a conspiracy of his enemies to disturb and embitter what should have been the placid last years of his life. He was far from being an old man; he was, in fact, in his middle fifties; he had retired young, almost precipitously, as soon as a small legacy had made it possible. He had been a lover of quiet all his life. Mrs. James did not share this preference. Now they were settled in a small country house, twelve miles from a suitable cinema. The wireless, for Mrs. James, was a link with the clean pavements and bright shop windows, a communion with millions of fellow beings. Mr. James saw it in just that light too. It was what he minded most—the violation of his privacy. He brooded with growing resentment on the vulgarity of womankind. In this mood he observed a burly man of about his own age signalling to him for a lift from the side of the road. He stopped. “I wonder if by any chance you are going to the railway station?” The man spoke politely with a low, rather melancholy voice. “I am; I have to pick up a parcel. Jump in.” “That’s very kind of you.” The man took his place beside Mr. James. His boots were dusty, and he sank back in his seat as though he had come from far and was weary. He had very large, ugly hands, close-cut grey hair, a bony, rather sunken face. For a mile or so he did not speak. Then he asked suddenly, “Has this car got a wireless?” “Certainly not.” “What is that knob for?” He began examining the dashboard. “And that?” “One is the self-starter. The other is supposed to light cigarettes. It does not work. If,” he continued sharply, “you have stopped me in the hope of hearing the wireless, I can only suggest that I put you down and let you try your luck on someone else.” “Heaven forbid,” said his passenger. “I detest the thing.” “So do I.” “Sir, you are one among millions. I regard myself as highly privileged in making your acquaintance.” “Thank you. It is a beastly invention.” The passenger’s eyes glowed with passionate sympathy. “It is worse. It is diabolical.” “Very true.” “Literally diabolical. It is put here by the devil to destroy us. Did you know that it spread the most terrible diseases?” “I didn’t know. But I can well believe it.” “It causes cancer, tuberculosis, infantile paralysis, and the common cold. I have proved it.” “It certainly causes headaches,” said Mr. James. “No man,” said his passenger, “has suffered more excruciating headaches than I. “They have tried to kill me with headaches. But I was too clever for them. Did you know that the BBC has its own secret police, its own prisons, its own torture chambers?” “I have long suspected it.” “I know. I have experienced them. Now it is the time of revenge.” Mr. James glanced rather uneasily at his passenger and drove a little faster. “I have a plan,” continued the big man. “I am going to London to put it into execution. I am going to kill the Director-General. I shall kill them all,cheap designer handbags.” They drove on in silence. They were nearing the outskirts of the town when a larger car driven by a girl drew abreast of them and passed. From inside it came the unmistakable sounds of a jazz band. The big man sat up in his seat, rigid as a pointer. “Do you hear that?” he said. “She’s got one. After her, quick.” “No good,” said Mr. James. “We can never catch that car.” “We can try. We shall try, unless,” he said with a new and more sinister note in his voice, “unless you don’t want to.” Mr. James accelerated. But the large car was nearly out of sight. “Once before,” said his passenger, “I was tricked. The BBC sent one of their spies. He was very like you. He pretended to be one of my followers,Designer Handbags; he said he was taking me to the Director-General’s office. Instead he took me to a prison. Now I know what to do with spies. I kill them.” He leaned towards Mr. James. “I assure you, my dear sir, you have no more loyal supporter than myself. It is simply a question of cars. I cannot overtake her. But no doubt we shall find her at the station.” “We shall see. If we do not, I shall know whom to thank, and how to thank him.” They were in the town now and making for the station. Mr. James looked despairingly at the policeman on point duty, but was signalled on with a negligent flick of the hand. In the station yard the passenger looked round eagerly. “I do not see that car,” he said. Mr. James fumbled for a second with the catch of the door and then tumbled out. “Help!” he cried. “Help! There’s a madman here.” With a great shout of anger the man dodged round the front of the car and bore down on him. At that moment three men in uniforms charged out of the station doorway. There was a brief scuffle; then, adroitly, they had their man strapped up. “We thought he’d make for the railway,” said their chief,fake uggs online store. “You must have had quite an exciting drive, sir.” Mr. James could scarcely speak. “Wireless,” he muttered weakly,ugg bailey button triplet 1873 boots. “Ho, he’s been talking to you about that, has he? Then you’re very lucky to be here to tell us. It’s his foible, as you might say. I hope you didn’t disagree with him.” “No,” said Mr. James. “At least, not at first.” “Well, you’re luckier than some. He can’t be crossed, not about wireless. Gets very wild. Why, he killed two people and half killed a third last time he got away. Well, many thanks for bringing him in so nicely, sir. We must be getting him home.” Home. Mr. James drove back along the familiar road. “Why,” said his wife when he entered the house. “How quick you’ve been. Where’s the parcel?” “I think I must have forgotten it.” “How very unlike you. Why, you’re looking quite ill. I’ll run in and tell Agnes to switch off the radio. She can’t have heard you come in.” “No,” said Mr. James, sitting down heavily. “Not switch off radio. Like it. Homely.”
There was a curious part of the late King's will
There was a curious part of the late King's will, requiring his executors to fulfil whatever promises he had made. Some of the court wondering what these might be, the Earl of Hertford and the other noblemen interested, said that they were promises to advance and enrich THEM. So, the Earl of Hertford made himself DUKE OF SOMERSET, and made his brother EDWARD SEYMOUR a baron; and there were various similar promotions, all very agreeable to the parties concerned, and very dutiful, no doubt, to the late King's memory. To be more dutiful still, they made themselves rich out of the Church lands, and were very comfortable. The new Duke of Somerset caused himself to be declared PROTECTOR of the kingdom, and was, indeed, the King.
As young Edward the Sixth had been brought up in the principles of the Protestant religion, everybody knew that they would be maintained. But Cranmer, to whom they were chiefly entrusted, advanced them steadily and temperately. Many superstitious and ridiculous practices were stopped; but practices which were harmless were not interfered with.
The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was anxious to have the young King engaged in marriage to the young Queen of Scotland, in order to prevent that princess from making an alliance with any foreign power; but, as a large party in Scotland were unfavourable to this plan,nike shox torch ii, he invaded that country. His excuse for doing so was, that the Border men - that is, the Scotch who lived in that part of the country where England and Scotland joined - troubled the English very much. But there were two sides to this question; for the English Border men troubled the Scotch too; and, through many long years, there were perpetual border quarrels which gave rise to numbers of old tales and songs. However, the Protector invaded Scotland; and ARRAN, the Scottish Regent, with an army twice as large as his, advanced to meet him. They encountered on the banks of the river Esk, within a few miles of Edinburgh; and there, after a little skirmish, the Protector made such moderate proposals, in offering to retire if the Scotch would only engage not to marry their princess to any foreign prince, that the Regent thought the English were afraid. But in this he made a horrible mistake; for the English soldiers on land, and the English sailors on the water, so set upon the Scotch,fake montblanc pens, that they broke and fled, and more than ten thousand of them were killed. It was a dreadful battle, for the fugitives were slain without mercy,fake uggs. The ground for four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, was strewn with dead men, and with arms, and legs, and heads. Some hid themselves in streams and were drowned; some threw away their armour and were killed running, almost naked,replica gucci handbags; but in this battle of Pinkey the English lost only two or three hundred men. They were much better clothed than the Scotch; at the poverty of whose appearance and country they were exceedingly astonished.
A Parliament was called when Somerset came back, and it repealed the whip with six strings, and did one or two other good things; though it unhappily retained the punishment of burning for those people who did not make believe to believe, in all religious matters, what the Government had declared that they must and should believe. It also made a foolish law (meant to put down beggars), that any man who lived idly and loitered about for three days together, should be burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and wear an iron fetter. But this savage absurdity soon came to an end, and went the way of a great many other foolish laws.
As young Edward the Sixth had been brought up in the principles of the Protestant religion, everybody knew that they would be maintained. But Cranmer, to whom they were chiefly entrusted, advanced them steadily and temperately. Many superstitious and ridiculous practices were stopped; but practices which were harmless were not interfered with.
The Duke of Somerset, the Protector, was anxious to have the young King engaged in marriage to the young Queen of Scotland, in order to prevent that princess from making an alliance with any foreign power; but, as a large party in Scotland were unfavourable to this plan,nike shox torch ii, he invaded that country. His excuse for doing so was, that the Border men - that is, the Scotch who lived in that part of the country where England and Scotland joined - troubled the English very much. But there were two sides to this question; for the English Border men troubled the Scotch too; and, through many long years, there were perpetual border quarrels which gave rise to numbers of old tales and songs. However, the Protector invaded Scotland; and ARRAN, the Scottish Regent, with an army twice as large as his, advanced to meet him. They encountered on the banks of the river Esk, within a few miles of Edinburgh; and there, after a little skirmish, the Protector made such moderate proposals, in offering to retire if the Scotch would only engage not to marry their princess to any foreign prince, that the Regent thought the English were afraid. But in this he made a horrible mistake; for the English soldiers on land, and the English sailors on the water, so set upon the Scotch,fake montblanc pens, that they broke and fled, and more than ten thousand of them were killed. It was a dreadful battle, for the fugitives were slain without mercy,fake uggs. The ground for four miles, all the way to Edinburgh, was strewn with dead men, and with arms, and legs, and heads. Some hid themselves in streams and were drowned; some threw away their armour and were killed running, almost naked,replica gucci handbags; but in this battle of Pinkey the English lost only two or three hundred men. They were much better clothed than the Scotch; at the poverty of whose appearance and country they were exceedingly astonished.
A Parliament was called when Somerset came back, and it repealed the whip with six strings, and did one or two other good things; though it unhappily retained the punishment of burning for those people who did not make believe to believe, in all religious matters, what the Government had declared that they must and should believe. It also made a foolish law (meant to put down beggars), that any man who lived idly and loitered about for three days together, should be burned with a hot iron, made a slave, and wear an iron fetter. But this savage absurdity soon came to an end, and went the way of a great many other foolish laws.
Friday, November 23, 2012
Excellent
"Excellent," said Tiberius, drily, "and now what about your own?"
Thrasyllus made another set of calculations, and then looked up in real or pretended terror. "Great Heavens!" he exclaimed, "an appalling danger threatens me from air and water."
"Any chance of circumventing it?" asked Tiberius.
"I cannot say. If I could survive the next twelve hours, my fortune would be, in its degree, as happy even as yours; but nearly all the malevolent planets are in conjunction against me and the danger seems all but unavoidable. Only Venus can save me."
"What was that you said just now about her? I forget."
"That she is moving into Scorpio, which is your sign, portending a marvellously happy change in your fortunes. Let me venture a further deduction from this all-important movement: you are soon to be engrafted into the Julian house, which, I need hardly remind you, traces direct descent from Venus, the mother of Eneas. Tiberius, my humble fate is curiously bound up with your illustrious one. If good news comes to you before dawn tomorrow, it is a sign that I have almost as many fortunate years before me as yourself."
They were sitting out on the porch and suddenly a wren or some such small bird hopped on Thrasyllus's knee and, cocking its head on one side, began to chirp at him. Thrasyllus said to the bird, "Thank you, sister! It came only just in time." Then he turned to Tiberius: "Heaven be praised! That ship has good news for you, the bird says, and I am saved. The danger is averted."
Tiberius sprang up and embraced Thrasyllus, confessing what his intentions had been. And, sure enough, the ship carried Imperial dispatches from Augustus informing Tiberius of Lucius's death and saying that in the circumstances he was graciously permitted to return to Rome, though for the present only as a private citizen.
As for Gaius, Augustus had been anxious that he should have no task assigned to him for which he was not fitted, and that the East should remain quiet during his governorship. Unfortunately the King of Armenia revolted and the King of Parthia threatened to join forces with him; which put Augustus in a quandary. Though Gaius had shown himself an able peace-time governor, Augustus did not believe him capable of conducting so important a war as this; and he himself was too old to go campaigning and had too many affairs to attend to at Rome, besides. Yet he could not send out anybody else to take over the Eastern regiments from Gaius because Gaius was Consul and should never have been allowed to enter upon the office if he was incapable of high military command. There was nothing to be done but to let Gaius be and hope for the best.
Gaius was lucky at first. The danger from the Armenians was removed by an invasion of their Eastern border by a wandering tribe of barbarians. The King of Armenia was killed while chasing them away. The King of Parthia, hearing of this and also of the large army that Gaius was getting together, then came to terms with him: to the great relief of Augustus. But Augustus's new nominee to the throne of Armenia, a Mede, was not acceptable to the Armenian nobles, and when Gaius had sent home his extra forces as no longer necessary they declared war after all. Gaius reassembled his army, and marched to Armenia, where a few months later he was treacherously wounded by one of the enemy generals who had invited him to a parley. It was not a serious wound. He thought little of it at the time and concluded the campaign successfully. But somehow he was given the wrong medical treatment, and his health, which from no apparent cause had been failing him for the last two years, became seriously affected: he lost all power of mental concentration. Finally he wrote to Augustus for permission to retire into private life. Augustus was grieved, but granted his plea. Gaius died on his way home. Thus of Julia's sons only fifteen year old Postumus now remained and Augustus was so far reconciled to Tiberius that, as Thrasyllus foretold, he engrafted him into the Julian house by adopting him, jointly with Postumus, as his son and heir.
Thrasyllus made another set of calculations, and then looked up in real or pretended terror. "Great Heavens!" he exclaimed, "an appalling danger threatens me from air and water."
"Any chance of circumventing it?" asked Tiberius.
"I cannot say. If I could survive the next twelve hours, my fortune would be, in its degree, as happy even as yours; but nearly all the malevolent planets are in conjunction against me and the danger seems all but unavoidable. Only Venus can save me."
"What was that you said just now about her? I forget."
"That she is moving into Scorpio, which is your sign, portending a marvellously happy change in your fortunes. Let me venture a further deduction from this all-important movement: you are soon to be engrafted into the Julian house, which, I need hardly remind you, traces direct descent from Venus, the mother of Eneas. Tiberius, my humble fate is curiously bound up with your illustrious one. If good news comes to you before dawn tomorrow, it is a sign that I have almost as many fortunate years before me as yourself."
They were sitting out on the porch and suddenly a wren or some such small bird hopped on Thrasyllus's knee and, cocking its head on one side, began to chirp at him. Thrasyllus said to the bird, "Thank you, sister! It came only just in time." Then he turned to Tiberius: "Heaven be praised! That ship has good news for you, the bird says, and I am saved. The danger is averted."
Tiberius sprang up and embraced Thrasyllus, confessing what his intentions had been. And, sure enough, the ship carried Imperial dispatches from Augustus informing Tiberius of Lucius's death and saying that in the circumstances he was graciously permitted to return to Rome, though for the present only as a private citizen.
As for Gaius, Augustus had been anxious that he should have no task assigned to him for which he was not fitted, and that the East should remain quiet during his governorship. Unfortunately the King of Armenia revolted and the King of Parthia threatened to join forces with him; which put Augustus in a quandary. Though Gaius had shown himself an able peace-time governor, Augustus did not believe him capable of conducting so important a war as this; and he himself was too old to go campaigning and had too many affairs to attend to at Rome, besides. Yet he could not send out anybody else to take over the Eastern regiments from Gaius because Gaius was Consul and should never have been allowed to enter upon the office if he was incapable of high military command. There was nothing to be done but to let Gaius be and hope for the best.
Gaius was lucky at first. The danger from the Armenians was removed by an invasion of their Eastern border by a wandering tribe of barbarians. The King of Armenia was killed while chasing them away. The King of Parthia, hearing of this and also of the large army that Gaius was getting together, then came to terms with him: to the great relief of Augustus. But Augustus's new nominee to the throne of Armenia, a Mede, was not acceptable to the Armenian nobles, and when Gaius had sent home his extra forces as no longer necessary they declared war after all. Gaius reassembled his army, and marched to Armenia, where a few months later he was treacherously wounded by one of the enemy generals who had invited him to a parley. It was not a serious wound. He thought little of it at the time and concluded the campaign successfully. But somehow he was given the wrong medical treatment, and his health, which from no apparent cause had been failing him for the last two years, became seriously affected: he lost all power of mental concentration. Finally he wrote to Augustus for permission to retire into private life. Augustus was grieved, but granted his plea. Gaius died on his way home. Thus of Julia's sons only fifteen year old Postumus now remained and Augustus was so far reconciled to Tiberius that, as Thrasyllus foretold, he engrafted him into the Julian house by adopting him, jointly with Postumus, as his son and heir.
Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment
Then for her and her husband came a delightful moment. He was looking at her with deep emotion. Her duty accomplished, she was now returning to him, for she was spouse as well as mother. Never had he thought her so beautiful, possessed of so strong and so calm a beauty, radiant with the triumph of happy motherhood, as though indeed a spark of something divine had been imparted to her by that river of milk that had streamed from her bosom. A song of glory seemed to sound, glory to the source of life, glory to the true mother, to the one who nourishes, her travail o'er. For there is none other; the rest are imperfect and cowardly, responsible for incalculable disasters. And on seeing her thus, in that glory, amid her vigorous children, like the good goddess of Fruitfulness, Mathieu felt that he adored her. Divine passion swept by--the glow which makes the fields palpitate, which rolls on through the waters, and floats in the wind, begetting millions and millions of existences. And 'twas delightful the ecstasy into which they both sank, forgetfulness of all else, of all those others who were there. They saw them no longer; they felt but one desire, to say that they loved each other, and that the season had come when love blossoms afresh. His lips protruded, she offered hers, and then they kissed.
"Oh! don't disturb yourselves!" cried Beauchene merrily. "Why, what is the matter with you?"
"Would you like us to move away?" added Seguin.
But while Valentine laughed wildly, and Constance put on a prudish air, Morange, in whose voice tears were again rising, spoke these words, fraught with supreme regret: "Ah! you are right!"
Astonished at what they had done, without intention of doing it, Mathieu and Marianne remained for a moment speechless, looking at one another in consternation. And then they burst into a hearty laugh, gayly excusing themselves. To love! to love! to be able to love! Therein lies all health, all will, and all power.
Chapter 12
FOUR years went by. And during those four years Mathieu and Marianne had two more children, a daughter at the end of the first year and a son at the expiration of the third. And each time that the family thus increased, the estate at Chantebled was increased also--on the first occasion by fifty more acres of rich soil reclaimed among the marshes of the plateau, and the second time by an extensive expanse of wood and moorland which the springs were beginning to fertilize. It was the resistless conquest of life, it was fruitfulness spreading in the sunlight, it was labor ever incessantly pursuing its work of creation amid obstacles and suffering, making good all losses, and at each succeeding hour setting more energy, more health, and more joy in the veins of the world.
On the day when Mathieu called on Seguin to purchase the wood and moorland, he lunched with Dr. Boutan, whom he found in an execrable humor. The doctor had just heard that three of his former patients had lately passed through the hands of his colleague Gaude, the notorious surgeon to whose clinic at the Marbeuf Hospital society Paris flocked as to a theatre. One of these patients was none other than Euphrasie, old Moineaud's eldest daughter, now married to Auguste Benard, a mason, and already the mother of three children. She had doubtless resumed her usual avocations too soon after the birth of her last child, as often happens in working-class families where the mother is unable to remain idle. At all events, she had for some time been ailing, and had finally been removed to the hospital. Mathieu had for a while employed her young sister Cecile, now seventeen, as a servant in the house at Chantebled, but she was of poor health and had returned to Paris, where, curiously enough, she also entered Doctor Gaude's clinic. And Boutan waxed indignant at the methods which Gaude employed. The two sisters, the married woman and the girl, had been discharged as cured, and so far, this might seem to be the case; but time, in Boutan's opinion, would bring round some terrible revenges.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Angstrom takes him back through the house and in the dark of the dining room touches his arm
Angstrom takes him back through the house and in the dark of the dining room touches his arm. "He liked things just so," he says. "I never saw a boy like him. Any rumpus in the family he'd take hard out of all reason ? when Mary and I, you know, would have our fun." Eccles nods, but doubts that "fun" quite describes what he's seen.
In the living?room shadows a slender girl stands in a barearmed summer dress. "Mim! Did you just get in?"
"Yeah."
"This is Father ? I mean Reverend ='
"Eccles."
"Eccles, he came to talk about Harry. My daughter Miriam." "Hello, Miriam. I've heard Harry speak very fondly of you."
"Hi."
With that word the big window behind her takes on the intimate glaze of the big window in a luncheonette. Flip greetings seem to trail behind her with wisps of cigarette smoke and drugstore perfume. Mrs. Angstrom's nose has delicacy on the girl's face, a sharpness Saracen or even more ancient, barbaric. Taken with the prominent nose her height at first glance seems her mother's, but when her father stands beside her, Eccles sees that it is his height; their bodies, the beautiful girl's and the weary man's, are the same. They have the same narrowness, and a serviceable vulgarity that offends him. They'll get through. They know what they're doing. It's a weakness of his, to prefer people who don't know what they're doing. The helpless: these, and the people on top, beyond help. The ones who maneuver more or less well in the middle seem to his aristocratic prejudices to be thieving from both ends. When they bunch at the door, Angstrom puts his arm around his daughter's waist and Eccles thinks of Mrs. Angstrom silent in the kitchen with her wet cheeks and red arms, a mad captive. Yet, turning on the pavement to wave at the two of them in the doorway, he has to smile at their incongruous symmetry, the earringed Arab boy with her innocent contempt for his eunuch's collar, and the limp?faced old woman of a printer, paired in slenderness, interlocked.
He gets into the Buick thirsty and vexed. There was something pleasant said in the last half?hour but he can't remember what it was. He feels scratched, hot, confused, and dry; he's spent an afternoon in a bramble patch. He's seen half a dozen people and a dog and nowhere did an opinion tally with his own, that Harry Angstrom was worth saving and could be saved. Instead down there between the brambles there seemed to be no Harry at all: nothing but stale air and last year's dead stalks. The day is declining through the white afternoon to the long blue spring evening. He drives past a corner where someone is practicing on a trumpet behind an open upstairs window. Du du do do da da dee. Dee dee da da do do du. Cars are whispering home from work. He drives across the town, tacking on the diagonal streets along a course parallel to the distant ridge of the mountain. Fritz Kruppenbach, Mt. Judge's Lutheran minister for twenty?seven years, lives in a high brick house not far from the cemetery. The motorcycle belonging to his college?age son is on its side in the driveway, partly dismantled. The sloping lawn, graded in fussy terraces, has the unnatural chartreuse evenness that comes with much fertilizing, much weed?killing, and much mowing. Mrs. Kruppenbach ? will Lucy ever achieve that dimpled, obedient look? ? comes to the door in a dark wool dress that makes no compromise with the season. Her gray hair girdles her head with braids of great compactness. When she lets all that hair down, she must be a witch. "He's mowing out back," she says.
At this hour Passy seemed out of the world
At this hour Passy seemed out of the world; sleep had already fallen over it; it had all the quietude of a provincial town. On each side of the street loomed mansions, girls' schools, black and silent, and dining places, from the kitchens of which lights still streamed. There was not, however, a single shop to throw the glare of its frontage across the dimness. To Henri and Helene the loneliness was pregnant with intense charm. He had not ventured to offer her his arm. Jeanne walked between them in the middle of the road, which was gravelled like a walk in some park. At last the houses came to an end, and then on each side were walls, over which spread mantling clematis and clusters of lilac blossoms. Immense gardens parted the mansions, and here and there through the railings of an iron gate they could catch glimpses of a gloomy background of verdure, against which the tree-dotted turf assumed a more delicate hue. The air was filled with the perfume of irises growing in vases which they could scarce distinguish. All three paced on slowly through the warm spring night, which was steeping them in its odors, and Jeanne, with childish artlessness, raised her face to the heavens, and exclaimed:
"Oh, mamma, see what a number of stars!"
But behind them, like an echo of their own, came the footfall of Mother Fetu. Nearer and nearer she approached, till they could hear her muttering the opening words of the Angelic Salutation "_Ave Marie, gratia plena_," repeating them over and over again with the same confused persistency. She was telling her beads on her homeward way.
"I have still something left--may I give it to her?" Jeanne asked her mother.
And thereupon, without waiting for a reply, she left them, running towards the old woman, who was on the point of entering the Passage des Eaux. Mother Fetu clutched at the coin, calling upon all the angels of Heaven to bless her. As she spoke, however, she grasped the child's hand and detained her by her side, then asking in changed tones:
"The other lady is ill, is she not?"
"No," answered Jeanne, surprised.
"May Heaven shield her! May it shower its favors on her and her husband! Don't run away yet, my dear little lady. Let me say an _Ave Maria_ for your mother's sake, and you will join in the 'Amen' with me. Oh! your mother will allow you; you can catch her up."
Meanwhile Henri and Helene trembled as they found themselves suddenly left alone in the shadow cast by a line of huge chestnut trees that bordered the road. They quietly took a few steps. The chestnut trees had strewn the ground with their bloom, and they were walking upon this rosy-tinted carpet. On a sudden, however, they came to a stop, their hearts filled with such emotion that they could go no farther.
"Forgive me," said Henri simply.
"Yes, yes," ejaculated Helene. "But oh! be silent, I pray you."
She had felt his hand touch her own, and had started back. Fortunately Jeanne ran towards them at the moment.
"Mamma, mamma!" she cried; "she made me say an _Ave_; she says it will bring you good luck."
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
“Do all your associates have such charming resumes
“Do all your associates have such charming resumes?”
Dunny shrugs. “He was who he was.”
[215] “Yes, was. Both men are dead now.”
“Here’s the way I see it. Hector had killed before, and Reynerd conspired to have his own mother murdered. I wasn’t corrupting an innocent or targeting one, either.”
“I’m not concerned about corruption, Dunny. I’m concerned that you seem not to understand the limits of your authority.”
“I know ringing in one killer to take out another is somewhat unconventional—”
“Unconventional!” Typhon shakes his head. “No, lad, it’s utterly unacceptable.”
Dunny’s oysters and wine arrive. The waiter uncorks the Pinot Grigio, pours a taste, and Dunny approves.
Relying on the pleasant boozy rumble of the glamorous crowd to screen their sensitive conversation, Typhon returns to business. “Dunny, you must conduct yourself with discretion. All right, you’ve been a rogue much of your life, that’s true, but you gave that up in recent years, didn’t you?”
“Tried. Mostly succeeded. Listen, Mr. Typhon, I didn’t pull the trigger on Reynerd myself. I worked by indirection, like we agreed.”
“Hiring a hit man is not indirection.”
Dunny swallows an oyster. “Then I misunderstood.”
“I doubt that,” Typhon says. “I believe you knowingly stretched your authority to see if it would snap.”
Pretending gluttonous fascination with the oysters, Dunny dares not ask the obvious question.
The most powerful studio chief in the film industry enters the farther end of the room with all the poise and self-assurance of a Caesar. He travels in the company of an entourage of young male and female employees who are as sleek and cool as vampires yet, on closer inspection, appear simultaneously as nervous as Chihuahuas.
At once spotting Typhon, this king of Hollywood waves with a measured but revealing eagerness.
Typhon returns the greeting with a markedly more restrained wave, [216] thus instantly establishing himself as the higher of the two on the pecking order, to the Caesar’s controlled but still visible embarrassment.
Typhon now asks the question that Dunny has been reluctant to voice: “In hiring Hector X, did you stretch your authority past the snapping point?” Then he answers it: “Yes. But I’m inclined to give you one more chance.”
Dunny swallows another oyster, which slides down his throat more easily than the one before it.
“Many of the men and women in this bar,” says Typhon, “daily negotiate contracts with the intention of breaching them. The people with whom they negotiate fully expect to be victimized or to breach certain terms themselves. Eventually angry accusations are exchanged, attorneys are brandished, legal actions are served if not filed, and amidst bitter charges and vehement countercharges, a settlement is arranged out of court. After all this, and sometimes even during it, the same parties are engaged in negotiating other contracts with each other, contracts which they also intend to breach.”
“The film business is an asylum,” Dunny observes.
“Yes, it is. But, dear boy, that’s not my point.”
“Sorry.”
Dunny shrugs. “He was who he was.”
[215] “Yes, was. Both men are dead now.”
“Here’s the way I see it. Hector had killed before, and Reynerd conspired to have his own mother murdered. I wasn’t corrupting an innocent or targeting one, either.”
“I’m not concerned about corruption, Dunny. I’m concerned that you seem not to understand the limits of your authority.”
“I know ringing in one killer to take out another is somewhat unconventional—”
“Unconventional!” Typhon shakes his head. “No, lad, it’s utterly unacceptable.”
Dunny’s oysters and wine arrive. The waiter uncorks the Pinot Grigio, pours a taste, and Dunny approves.
Relying on the pleasant boozy rumble of the glamorous crowd to screen their sensitive conversation, Typhon returns to business. “Dunny, you must conduct yourself with discretion. All right, you’ve been a rogue much of your life, that’s true, but you gave that up in recent years, didn’t you?”
“Tried. Mostly succeeded. Listen, Mr. Typhon, I didn’t pull the trigger on Reynerd myself. I worked by indirection, like we agreed.”
“Hiring a hit man is not indirection.”
Dunny swallows an oyster. “Then I misunderstood.”
“I doubt that,” Typhon says. “I believe you knowingly stretched your authority to see if it would snap.”
Pretending gluttonous fascination with the oysters, Dunny dares not ask the obvious question.
The most powerful studio chief in the film industry enters the farther end of the room with all the poise and self-assurance of a Caesar. He travels in the company of an entourage of young male and female employees who are as sleek and cool as vampires yet, on closer inspection, appear simultaneously as nervous as Chihuahuas.
At once spotting Typhon, this king of Hollywood waves with a measured but revealing eagerness.
Typhon returns the greeting with a markedly more restrained wave, [216] thus instantly establishing himself as the higher of the two on the pecking order, to the Caesar’s controlled but still visible embarrassment.
Typhon now asks the question that Dunny has been reluctant to voice: “In hiring Hector X, did you stretch your authority past the snapping point?” Then he answers it: “Yes. But I’m inclined to give you one more chance.”
Dunny swallows another oyster, which slides down his throat more easily than the one before it.
“Many of the men and women in this bar,” says Typhon, “daily negotiate contracts with the intention of breaching them. The people with whom they negotiate fully expect to be victimized or to breach certain terms themselves. Eventually angry accusations are exchanged, attorneys are brandished, legal actions are served if not filed, and amidst bitter charges and vehement countercharges, a settlement is arranged out of court. After all this, and sometimes even during it, the same parties are engaged in negotiating other contracts with each other, contracts which they also intend to breach.”
“The film business is an asylum,” Dunny observes.
“Yes, it is. But, dear boy, that’s not my point.”
“Sorry.”
So we did
So we did,fake uggs for sale, and without difficulty we opened the door of the balneary, next to the infirmary.
Separated one from the other by thick curtains were some tubs, I don’t recall how many. The monks used them for their ablutions, on the days the Rule established, and Severinus used them for therapeutic reasons,fake montblanc pens, be?cause nothing can restore body and mind better than a bath. A fireplace in one corner allowed the water to be heated easily. We found it dirty with fresh ashes, and before it a great cauldron lay, overturned. The water could be drawn from a font in another corner,replica gucci handbags.
We looked in the first tubs, which were empty. Only the last, concealed by a drawn curtain, was full, and next to it lay a garment, in a heap. At first sight, in the beam of our lamp, the surface of the liquid seemed smooth; but as the light struck it we glimpsed on the bottom, lifeless, a naked human body. We pulled it out slowly: Berengar. And this one, William said, truly had the face of a drowned man. The features were swollen. The body, white and flabby, without hair, seemed a woman’s except for the obscene spectacle of the flaccid pudenda. I blushed, then shuddered. I made the sign of the cross as William blessed the corpse.
Chapter 23
FOURTH DAY
LAUDS
In which William and Severinus examine Berengar’s corpse and discover that the tongue is black, unusual in a drowned man. Then they discuss most painful poisons and a past theft.
I will not go into how we informed the abbot, how the whole abbey woke before the canonical hour, the cries of horror, the fear and grief that could be seen on every face, and how the news spread to all the people of the compound, the servants blessing themselves and uttering formulas against the evil eye. I don’t know whether the first office that morning proceeded accord?ing to regulations, or who took part in it. I followed William and Severinus, who had Berengar’s body wrapped up and ordered it laid out on a table in the infirmary.
When the abbot and the other monks had left, the herbalist and my master studied the corpse at length, with the cold detachment of men of medicine.
“He died by drowning,” Severinus said, “there’s no doubt. The face is swollen, the belly taut. ...”
“But he was not drowned by another’s hands,” William observed, “for in that case he would have reacted against the murderer’s violence, whereas everything was neat and clean, as if Berengar had heated the water, filled the bath, and lain in it of his own free will.”
“This doesn’t surprise me,” Severinus said. “Berengar suffered from convulsions, and I myself had often told him that warm baths serve to calm agitation of the body and the spirit. On several occasions he asked me leave to light the balneary fire. So he may have done last night. …”
“Night before last,” William said, “because this body,LINK?—as you see—has remained in the water at least one day.
William informed him of some of the events of that night. He did not tell him we had been in the scriptori?um furtively, but, concealing various circumstances, he told him that we had pursued a mysterious figure who had taken a book from us. Severinus realized William was telling him only a part of the truth, but he asked no further questions. He observed that the agitation of Berengar, if he had been the mysterious thief, could have led him then to seek calm in a refreshing bath. Berengar, he said, was of a very sensitive nature, and sometimes a vexation or an emotion brought on his trembling and cold sweats and made his eyes bulge, and he would fall to the ground, spitting out a whitish slime.
Separated one from the other by thick curtains were some tubs, I don’t recall how many. The monks used them for their ablutions, on the days the Rule established, and Severinus used them for therapeutic reasons,fake montblanc pens, be?cause nothing can restore body and mind better than a bath. A fireplace in one corner allowed the water to be heated easily. We found it dirty with fresh ashes, and before it a great cauldron lay, overturned. The water could be drawn from a font in another corner,replica gucci handbags.
We looked in the first tubs, which were empty. Only the last, concealed by a drawn curtain, was full, and next to it lay a garment, in a heap. At first sight, in the beam of our lamp, the surface of the liquid seemed smooth; but as the light struck it we glimpsed on the bottom, lifeless, a naked human body. We pulled it out slowly: Berengar. And this one, William said, truly had the face of a drowned man. The features were swollen. The body, white and flabby, without hair, seemed a woman’s except for the obscene spectacle of the flaccid pudenda. I blushed, then shuddered. I made the sign of the cross as William blessed the corpse.
Chapter 23
FOURTH DAY
LAUDS
In which William and Severinus examine Berengar’s corpse and discover that the tongue is black, unusual in a drowned man. Then they discuss most painful poisons and a past theft.
I will not go into how we informed the abbot, how the whole abbey woke before the canonical hour, the cries of horror, the fear and grief that could be seen on every face, and how the news spread to all the people of the compound, the servants blessing themselves and uttering formulas against the evil eye. I don’t know whether the first office that morning proceeded accord?ing to regulations, or who took part in it. I followed William and Severinus, who had Berengar’s body wrapped up and ordered it laid out on a table in the infirmary.
When the abbot and the other monks had left, the herbalist and my master studied the corpse at length, with the cold detachment of men of medicine.
“He died by drowning,” Severinus said, “there’s no doubt. The face is swollen, the belly taut. ...”
“But he was not drowned by another’s hands,” William observed, “for in that case he would have reacted against the murderer’s violence, whereas everything was neat and clean, as if Berengar had heated the water, filled the bath, and lain in it of his own free will.”
“This doesn’t surprise me,” Severinus said. “Berengar suffered from convulsions, and I myself had often told him that warm baths serve to calm agitation of the body and the spirit. On several occasions he asked me leave to light the balneary fire. So he may have done last night. …”
“Night before last,” William said, “because this body,LINK?—as you see—has remained in the water at least one day.
William informed him of some of the events of that night. He did not tell him we had been in the scriptori?um furtively, but, concealing various circumstances, he told him that we had pursued a mysterious figure who had taken a book from us. Severinus realized William was telling him only a part of the truth, but he asked no further questions. He observed that the agitation of Berengar, if he had been the mysterious thief, could have led him then to seek calm in a refreshing bath. Berengar, he said, was of a very sensitive nature, and sometimes a vexation or an emotion brought on his trembling and cold sweats and made his eyes bulge, and he would fall to the ground, spitting out a whitish slime.
These faithful lives
These faithful lives, whether seen of men or hidden in corners, arethe salvation of the world, and few of us fail to acknowledge it inthe hours when we are brought close to the heart of things, and seea little as God sees."Christie did not speak for a moment: Mr. Power's voice had been sograve, and his words so earnest that she could not answer lightly,but sat turning over the new thoughts in her mind. Presently shesaid, in a penitent but not quite satisfied tone:
"Of course you are right, sir,replica louis vuitton handbags. I'll try not to care for the outwardand visible signs of these hidden virtues; but I'm afraid I stillshall have a hankering for the worldly honors that are so valued bymost people.""'Success and glory are the children of hard work and God's favor,'
according to ,knockoff handbags?schylus, and you will find he was right. David got aheavy blow some years ago as I told you, I think; and he took ithard, but it did not spoil him: it made a man of him; and, if I amnot much mistaken, he will yet do something to be proud of, thoughthe world may never hear of it.""I hope so!" and Christie's face brightened at the thought.
"Nevertheless you look as if you doubted it, O you of little faith.
Every one has two sides to his nature: David has shown you the leastinteresting one, and you judge accordingly. I think he will show youthe other side some day,--for you are one of the women who winconfidence without trying,--and then you will know the real David.
Don't expect too much, or quarrel with the imperfections that makehim human; but take him for what he is worth, and help him if youcan to make his life a brave and good one.""I will, sir," answered Christie so meekly that Mr. Power laughed,shox torch 2;for this confessional in the strawberry bed amused him very much.
"You are a hero-worshipper, my dear; and if people don't come up tothe mark you are so disappointed that you fail to see the finereality which remains when the pretty romance ends. Saints walkabout the world today as much as ever, but instead of haircloth andhalos they now wear"--"Broadcloth and wide-brimmed hats," added Christie, looking up as ifshe had already found a better St. Thomas than any the church evercanonized.
He thanked her with a smile, and went on with a glance toward themeadow.
"And knights go crusading as gallantly as ever against the giantsand the dragons, though you don't discover it, because, instead ofbanner, lance, and shield they carry"--"Bushel-baskets, spades, and sweet-flag for their mothers," put inChristie again, as David came up the path with the loam he had beendigging.
Both began to laugh, and he joined in the merriment without knowingwhy, as he put down his load, took off his hat, and shook hands withhis honored guest.
"What's the joke?" he asked, refreshing himself with the handful ofberries Christie offered him.
"Don't tell," she whispered, looking dismayed at the idea of lettinghim know what she had said of him.
But Mr. Power answered tranquilly:
"We were talking about coins, and Christie was expressing heropinion of one I showed her. The face and date she understands; butthe motto puzzles her, and she has not seen the reverse side yet, sodoes not know its value. She will some day; and then she will agreewith me, I think, that it is sterling gold."The emphasis on the last words enlightened David: his sunburnt cheekreddened, but he only shook his head, saying: "She will find a brassfarthing I'm afraid, sir," and began to crumble a handful of loamabout the roots of a carnation that seemed to have sprung up bychance at the foot of the apple-tree,cheap designer handbags.
Lily had thus formed
Lily had thus formed, in the tumult of her surroundings, a little nucleus of friendly relations which mitigated the crudeness of her course in lingering with the Gormers after their return. Nor was she without pale glimpses of her own world, especially since the breaking-up of the Newport season had set the social current once more toward Long Island. Kate Corby, whose tastes made her as promiscuous as Carry Fisher was rendered by her necessities, occasionally descended on the Gormers, where, after a first stare of surprise, she took Lily's presence almost too much as a matter of course. Mrs. Fisher, too,Replica Designer Handbags, appearing frequently in the neighbourhood, drove over to impart her experiences and give Lily what she called the latest report from the weather-bureau; and the latter, who had never directly invited her confidence, could yet talk with her more freely than with Gerty Farish, in whose presence it was impossible even to admit the existence of much that Mrs. Fisher conveniently took for granted.
Mrs. Fisher, moreover, had no embarrassing curiosity. She did not wish to probe the inwardness of Lily's situation, but simply to view it from the outside, and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the succinct remark: "You must marry as soon as you can."
Lily uttered a faint laugh--for once Mrs. Fisher lacked originality. "Do you mean,fake uggs online store, like Gerty Farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of 'a good man's love'?"
"No--I don't think either of my candidates would answer to that description," said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection.
"Either? Are there actually two?"
"Well,link, perhaps I ought to say one and a half--for the moment."
Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. "Other things being equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband: who is he?"
"Don't fly out at me till you hear my reasons--George Dorset."
"Oh---" Lily murmured reproachfully,Designer Handbags; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on unrebuffed. "Well, why not? They had a few weeks' honeymoon when they first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and George's powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They're at their place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly party--no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)--and after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end would have to come soon."
Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. "As far as that goes, the end will never come--Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him."
Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. "Not if he has any one else to turn to! Yes--that's just what it comes to: the poor creature can't stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm." She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from Lily's: "He wouldn't stay with her ten minutes if he KNEW---"
Mrs. Fisher, moreover, had no embarrassing curiosity. She did not wish to probe the inwardness of Lily's situation, but simply to view it from the outside, and draw her conclusions accordingly; and these conclusions, at the end of a confidential talk, she summed up to her friend in the succinct remark: "You must marry as soon as you can."
Lily uttered a faint laugh--for once Mrs. Fisher lacked originality. "Do you mean,fake uggs online store, like Gerty Farish, to recommend the unfailing panacea of 'a good man's love'?"
"No--I don't think either of my candidates would answer to that description," said Mrs. Fisher after a pause of reflection.
"Either? Are there actually two?"
"Well,link, perhaps I ought to say one and a half--for the moment."
Miss Bart received this with increasing amusement. "Other things being equal, I think I should prefer a half-husband: who is he?"
"Don't fly out at me till you hear my reasons--George Dorset."
"Oh---" Lily murmured reproachfully,Designer Handbags; but Mrs. Fisher pressed on unrebuffed. "Well, why not? They had a few weeks' honeymoon when they first got back from Europe, but now things are going badly with them again. Bertha has been behaving more than ever like a madwoman, and George's powers of credulity are very nearly exhausted. They're at their place here, you know, and I spent last Sunday with them. It was a ghastly party--no one else but poor Neddy Silverton, who looks like a galley-slave (they used to talk of my making that poor boy unhappy!)--and after luncheon George carried me off on a long walk, and told me the end would have to come soon."
Miss Bart made an incredulous gesture. "As far as that goes, the end will never come--Bertha will always know how to get him back when she wants him."
Mrs. Fisher continued to observe her tentatively. "Not if he has any one else to turn to! Yes--that's just what it comes to: the poor creature can't stand alone. And I remember him such a good fellow, full of life and enthusiasm." She paused, and went on, dropping her glance from Lily's: "He wouldn't stay with her ten minutes if he KNEW---"
Ezeudu
"Ezeudu!" he called in his guttural voice,replica mont blanc pens. "If you had been poor in your last life I would have asked you to be rich when you come again. But you were rich. If you had been a coward, I would have asked you to bring courage. But you were a fearless warrior. If you had died young, I would have asked you to get life. But you lived long. So I shall ask you to come again the way you came before. If your death was the death of nature, go in peace. But if a man caused it, do not allow him a moment's rest." He danced a few more steps and went away. The drums and the dancing began again and reached fever-heat. Darkness was around the corner, and the burial was near. Guns fired the last salute and the cannon rent the sky. And then from the center of the delirious fury came a cry of agony and shouts of horror. It was as if a spell had been cast. All was silent. In the center of the crowd a boy lay in a pool of blood. It was the dead man's sixteen-year-old son, who with his brothers and half-brothers had been dancing the traditional farewell to their father. Okonkwo's gun had exploded and a piece of iron had pierced the boy's heart.
The confusion that followed was without parallel in the tradition of Umuofia. Violent deaths were frequent, but nothing like this had ever happened.
The only course open to Okonkwo was to flee from the clan. It was a crime against the earth goddess to kill a clansman, and a man who committed it must flee from the land. The crime was of two kinds,knockoff handbags, male and female. Okonkwo had committed the female, because it had been inadvertent. He could return to the clan after seven years.
That night he collected his most valuable belongings into head-loads. His wives wept bitterly and their children wept with them without knowing why. Obierika and half a dozen other friends came to help and to console him. They each made nine or ten trips carrying Okonkwo's yams to store in Obierika's barn. And before the cock crowed Okonkwo and his family were fleeing to his motherland,UGG Clerance. It was a little village called Mbanta, just beyond the borders of Mbaino.
As soon as the day broke, a large crowd of men from Ezeudu's quarter stormed Okonkwo's compound, dressed in garbs of war. They set fire to his houses, demolished his red walls, killed his animals and destroyed his barn. It was the justice of the earth goddess,moncler jackets men, and they were merely her messengers. They had no hatred in their hearts against Okonkwo. His greatest friend, Obierika, was among them. They were merely cleansing the land which Okonkwo had polluted with the blood of a clansman.
Obierika was a man who thought about things. When the will of the goddess had been done, he sat down in his obi and mourned his friend's calamity. Why should a man suffer so grievously for an offense he had committed inadvertently? But although he thought for a long time he found no answer. He was merely led into greater complexities. He remembered his wife's twin children, whom he had thrown away. What crime had they committed? The Earth had decreed that they were an offense on the land and must be destroyed. And if the clan did not exact punishment for an offense against the great goddess, her wrath was loosed on all the land and not just on the offender. As the elders said, if one finger brought oil it soiled the others.
The confusion that followed was without parallel in the tradition of Umuofia. Violent deaths were frequent, but nothing like this had ever happened.
The only course open to Okonkwo was to flee from the clan. It was a crime against the earth goddess to kill a clansman, and a man who committed it must flee from the land. The crime was of two kinds,knockoff handbags, male and female. Okonkwo had committed the female, because it had been inadvertent. He could return to the clan after seven years.
That night he collected his most valuable belongings into head-loads. His wives wept bitterly and their children wept with them without knowing why. Obierika and half a dozen other friends came to help and to console him. They each made nine or ten trips carrying Okonkwo's yams to store in Obierika's barn. And before the cock crowed Okonkwo and his family were fleeing to his motherland,UGG Clerance. It was a little village called Mbanta, just beyond the borders of Mbaino.
As soon as the day broke, a large crowd of men from Ezeudu's quarter stormed Okonkwo's compound, dressed in garbs of war. They set fire to his houses, demolished his red walls, killed his animals and destroyed his barn. It was the justice of the earth goddess,moncler jackets men, and they were merely her messengers. They had no hatred in their hearts against Okonkwo. His greatest friend, Obierika, was among them. They were merely cleansing the land which Okonkwo had polluted with the blood of a clansman.
Obierika was a man who thought about things. When the will of the goddess had been done, he sat down in his obi and mourned his friend's calamity. Why should a man suffer so grievously for an offense he had committed inadvertently? But although he thought for a long time he found no answer. He was merely led into greater complexities. He remembered his wife's twin children, whom he had thrown away. What crime had they committed? The Earth had decreed that they were an offense on the land and must be destroyed. And if the clan did not exact punishment for an offense against the great goddess, her wrath was loosed on all the land and not just on the offender. As the elders said, if one finger brought oil it soiled the others.
Monday, November 19, 2012
Did you throw that bottle
"Did you throw that bottle?"
The heavy brown eyes stared sullenly back at him.
"What were you doing?"
"It was a bomb,Moncler Outlet."
"Were you throwing it at me?"
"No."
"What then?"
"A gringo."
The lieutenant smiled—an awkward movement of the lips: "That's right, but you must aim better." He kicked the broken bottle into the road and tried to think of words which would show these children that they were on the same side. He said: "I suppose the gringo was one of those rich Yankees who think ..." and surprised an expression of devotion in the boy's face; it called for something in return, and the lieutenant became aware in his own heart of a sad and unsatisfiable love. He said: "Come here." The child approached, while his companions stood in a scared semi-circle and watched from a safe distance. "What is your name,cheap designer handbags?"
"Luis."
"Well," the lieutenant said, at a loss for words, "you must learn to aim properly."
The boy said passionately: "I wish I could." He had his eye on the holster.
"Would you like to see my gun?" the lieutenant said. He drew his heavy automatic from the holster and held it out: the children drew cautiously in. He said: "This is the safety—catch. Lift it. So. Now it's ready to fire."
"Is it loaded?" Luis asked.
"It's always loaded."
The tip of the boy's tongue appeared: he swallowed. Saliva came from the glands as if he smelt blood. They all stood close [52] in now. A daring child put out his hand and touched the holster. They ringed the lieutenant round: he was surrounded by an insecure happiness as he fitted the gun back on his hip.
"What is it called?" Luis asked.
"A Colt No. 5."
"How many bullets?"
"Six."
"Have you killed somebody with it?"
"Not yet," the lieutenant said.
They were breathless with interest. He stood with his hand on his holster and watched the brown intent patient eyes: it was for these he was fighting. He would eliminate from their childhood everything which had made him miserable,LINK, all that was poor, superstitious, and corrupt. They deserved nothing less than the truth—a vacant universe and a cooling world, the right to be happy in any way they chose. He was quite prepared to make a massacre for their sakes—first the Church and then the foreigner and then the politician—even his own chief would one day have to go. He wanted to begin the world again with them,moncler jackets men, in a desert.
"Oh," Luis said, "I wish ... I wish ..." as if his ambition were too vast for definition. The lieutenant put out his hand in a gesture of affection—a touch, he didn't know what to do with it. He pinched the boy's ear and saw him flinch away with the pain: they scattered from him like birds and he went on alone across the plaza to the police station, a little dapper figure of hate carrying his secret of love. On the wall of the office the gangster still stared stubbornly in profile towards the first communion party: somebody had inked the priest's head round to detach him from the girls' and the women's faces: the unbearable grin peeked out of a halo. The lieutenant called furiously out into the patio: "Is there nobody here?" Then he sat down at the desk while the gun-butts scraped the floor.
The heavy brown eyes stared sullenly back at him.
"What were you doing?"
"It was a bomb,Moncler Outlet."
"Were you throwing it at me?"
"No."
"What then?"
"A gringo."
The lieutenant smiled—an awkward movement of the lips: "That's right, but you must aim better." He kicked the broken bottle into the road and tried to think of words which would show these children that they were on the same side. He said: "I suppose the gringo was one of those rich Yankees who think ..." and surprised an expression of devotion in the boy's face; it called for something in return, and the lieutenant became aware in his own heart of a sad and unsatisfiable love. He said: "Come here." The child approached, while his companions stood in a scared semi-circle and watched from a safe distance. "What is your name,cheap designer handbags?"
"Luis."
"Well," the lieutenant said, at a loss for words, "you must learn to aim properly."
The boy said passionately: "I wish I could." He had his eye on the holster.
"Would you like to see my gun?" the lieutenant said. He drew his heavy automatic from the holster and held it out: the children drew cautiously in. He said: "This is the safety—catch. Lift it. So. Now it's ready to fire."
"Is it loaded?" Luis asked.
"It's always loaded."
The tip of the boy's tongue appeared: he swallowed. Saliva came from the glands as if he smelt blood. They all stood close [52] in now. A daring child put out his hand and touched the holster. They ringed the lieutenant round: he was surrounded by an insecure happiness as he fitted the gun back on his hip.
"What is it called?" Luis asked.
"A Colt No. 5."
"How many bullets?"
"Six."
"Have you killed somebody with it?"
"Not yet," the lieutenant said.
They were breathless with interest. He stood with his hand on his holster and watched the brown intent patient eyes: it was for these he was fighting. He would eliminate from their childhood everything which had made him miserable,LINK, all that was poor, superstitious, and corrupt. They deserved nothing less than the truth—a vacant universe and a cooling world, the right to be happy in any way they chose. He was quite prepared to make a massacre for their sakes—first the Church and then the foreigner and then the politician—even his own chief would one day have to go. He wanted to begin the world again with them,moncler jackets men, in a desert.
"Oh," Luis said, "I wish ... I wish ..." as if his ambition were too vast for definition. The lieutenant put out his hand in a gesture of affection—a touch, he didn't know what to do with it. He pinched the boy's ear and saw him flinch away with the pain: they scattered from him like birds and he went on alone across the plaza to the police station, a little dapper figure of hate carrying his secret of love. On the wall of the office the gangster still stared stubbornly in profile towards the first communion party: somebody had inked the priest's head round to detach him from the girls' and the women's faces: the unbearable grin peeked out of a halo. The lieutenant called furiously out into the patio: "Is there nobody here?" Then he sat down at the desk while the gun-butts scraped the floor.
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
I read on and on
I read on and on, till at length my voice trailed over the last line, rose gallantly at the last fence, the single word _Curtain_, and abruptly broke. The strain had been too much for me.
Tenderly my mother drew me to the sofa; and quietly, with closed eyelids, I lay there until, in the soft cool of the evening, I asked for her verdict.
Seeing, as she did instantly, that it would be more dangerous to deny my request than to accede to it, she spoke.
"That there is an absence, my dear Margie, of any relationship with life, that not a single character is in any degree human, that passion and virtue and vice and real feeling are wanting--this surprises me more than I can tell you. I had expected to listen to a natural, ordinary, unactable episode arranged more or less in steichomuthics. There is no work so scholarly and engaging as the amateur's. But in your play I am amazed to find the touch of the professional and experienced playwright. Yes, my dear, you have proved that you happen to possess the quality--one that is most difficult to acquire--of surrounding a situation which is improbable enough to be convincing with that absurdly mechanical conversation which the theatre-going public demands. As your mother, I am disappointed. I had hoped for originality. As your literary well-wisher, I stifle my maternal feelings and congratulate you unreservedly."
I thanked my mother effusively. I think I cried a little.
She said affectionately that the hour had been one of great interest to her, and she added that she would be glad to be consulted with regard to the steps I contemplated taking in my literary future.
She then resumed her book.
I went to my room and re-read the last letter I had had from James.
The Barrel Club,
Covent Garden,
London.
MY DARLING MARGIE,--I am writing this line simply and solely for the selfish pleasure I gain from the act of writing to you. I know everything will come right some time or other, but at present I am suffering from a bad attack of the blues. I am like a general who has planned out a brilliant attack, and realises that he must fail for want of sufficient troops to carry a position, on the taking of which the whole success of the assault depends. Briefly, my position is like this. My name is pretty well known in a small sort of way among editors and the like as that of a man who can turn out fairly good stuff. Besides this, I have many influential friends. You see where this brings me? I am in the middle of my attacking movement, and I have not been beaten back; but the key to the enemy's position is still uncaptured. You know what this key is from my other letters. It's the stage. Ah, Margie, one acting play! Only one! It would mean everything. Apart from the actual triumph and the direct profits, it would bring so much with it. The enemy's flank would be turned, and the rest of the battle would become a mere rout. I should have an accepted position in the literary world which would convert all the other avenues to wealth on which I have my eye instantly into royal roads. Obstacles would vanish. The fact that I was a successful playwright would make the acceptance of the sort of work I am doing now inevitable, and I should get paid ten times as well for it. And it would mean--well, you know what it would mean, don't you? Darling Margie, tell me again that I have your love, that the waiting is not too hard, that you believe in me. Dearest, it will come right in the end. Nothing can prevent that. Love and the will of a man have always beaten Time and Fate. Write to me, dear.
Tenderly my mother drew me to the sofa; and quietly, with closed eyelids, I lay there until, in the soft cool of the evening, I asked for her verdict.
Seeing, as she did instantly, that it would be more dangerous to deny my request than to accede to it, she spoke.
"That there is an absence, my dear Margie, of any relationship with life, that not a single character is in any degree human, that passion and virtue and vice and real feeling are wanting--this surprises me more than I can tell you. I had expected to listen to a natural, ordinary, unactable episode arranged more or less in steichomuthics. There is no work so scholarly and engaging as the amateur's. But in your play I am amazed to find the touch of the professional and experienced playwright. Yes, my dear, you have proved that you happen to possess the quality--one that is most difficult to acquire--of surrounding a situation which is improbable enough to be convincing with that absurdly mechanical conversation which the theatre-going public demands. As your mother, I am disappointed. I had hoped for originality. As your literary well-wisher, I stifle my maternal feelings and congratulate you unreservedly."
I thanked my mother effusively. I think I cried a little.
She said affectionately that the hour had been one of great interest to her, and she added that she would be glad to be consulted with regard to the steps I contemplated taking in my literary future.
She then resumed her book.
I went to my room and re-read the last letter I had had from James.
The Barrel Club,
Covent Garden,
London.
MY DARLING MARGIE,--I am writing this line simply and solely for the selfish pleasure I gain from the act of writing to you. I know everything will come right some time or other, but at present I am suffering from a bad attack of the blues. I am like a general who has planned out a brilliant attack, and realises that he must fail for want of sufficient troops to carry a position, on the taking of which the whole success of the assault depends. Briefly, my position is like this. My name is pretty well known in a small sort of way among editors and the like as that of a man who can turn out fairly good stuff. Besides this, I have many influential friends. You see where this brings me? I am in the middle of my attacking movement, and I have not been beaten back; but the key to the enemy's position is still uncaptured. You know what this key is from my other letters. It's the stage. Ah, Margie, one acting play! Only one! It would mean everything. Apart from the actual triumph and the direct profits, it would bring so much with it. The enemy's flank would be turned, and the rest of the battle would become a mere rout. I should have an accepted position in the literary world which would convert all the other avenues to wealth on which I have my eye instantly into royal roads. Obstacles would vanish. The fact that I was a successful playwright would make the acceptance of the sort of work I am doing now inevitable, and I should get paid ten times as well for it. And it would mean--well, you know what it would mean, don't you? Darling Margie, tell me again that I have your love, that the waiting is not too hard, that you believe in me. Dearest, it will come right in the end. Nothing can prevent that. Love and the will of a man have always beaten Time and Fate. Write to me, dear.
This brave expedition was involved in a contest with a hurricane
This brave expedition was involved in a contest with a hurricane; onevessel was sunk, and the Sea Venture, with the three commanders, onehundred and fifty men, the new commissioners, bills of lading, allsorts of instructions, and much provision, was wrecked on theBermudas. With this company was William Strachey, of whom we shallhear more hereafter. Seven vessels reached Jamestown, and brought,among other annoyances, Smith's old enemy, Captain Ratcliffe, aliasSicklemore, in command of a ship. Among the company were alsoCaptains Martin, Archer, Wood, Webbe, Moore, King, Davis, and severalgentlemen of good means, and a crowd of the riff-raff of London.
Some of these Captains whom Smith had sent home, now returned withnew pretensions, and had on the voyage prejudiced the company againsthim. When the fleet was first espied, the President thought it wasSpaniards, and prepared to defend himself, the Indians promptlycoming to his assistance.
This hurricane tossed about another expedition still more famous,that of Henry Hudson, who had sailed from England on his third voyagetoward Nova Zembla March 25th, and in July and August was beatingdown the Atlantic coast. On the 18th of August he entered the Capesof Virginia, and sailed a little way up the Bay. He knew he was atthe mouth of the James River, "where our Englishmen are," as he says.
The next day a gale from the northeast made him fear being drivenaground in the shallows, and he put to sea. The storm continued forseveral days. On the 21st "a sea broke over the fore-course andsplit it;" and that night something more ominous occurred: "thatnight [the chronicle records] our cat ran crying from one side of theship to the other, looking overboard, which made us to wonder, but wesaw nothing." On the 26th they were again off the bank of Virginia,and in the very bay and in sight of the islands they had seen on the18th. It appeared to Hudson "a great bay with rivers," but tooshallow to explore without a small boat. After lingering till the29th, without any suggestion of ascending the James, he sailednorthward and made the lucky stroke of river exploration whichimmortalized him.
It seems strange that he did not search for the English colony, butthe adventurers of that day were independent actors, and did not careto share with each other the glories of discovery.
The first of the scattered fleet of Gates and Somers came in on the11th, and the rest straggled along during the three or four daysfollowing. It was a narrow chance that Hudson missed them all, andone may imagine that the fate of the Virginia colony and of the NewYork settlement would have been different if the explorer of theHudson had gone up the James.
No sooner had the newcomers landed than trouble began. They wouldhave deposed Smith on report of the new commission, but they couldshow no warrant. Smith professed himself willing to retire toEngland, but, seeing the new commission did not arrive, held on tohis authority, and began to enforce it to save the whole colony fromanarchy. He depicts the situation in a paragraph: "To a thousandmischiefs these lewd Captains led this lewd company, wherein weremany unruly gallants, packed thither by their friends to escape illdestinies, and those would dispose and determine of the government,sometimes to one, the next day to another; today the old commissionmust rule, tomorrow the new, the next day neither; in fine, theywould rule all or ruin all; yet in charity we must endure them thusto destroy us, or by correcting their follies, have brought theworld's censure upon us to be guilty of their blouds. Happie had webeene had they never arrived, and we forever abandoned, as we wereleft to our fortunes; for on earth for their number was never moreconfusion or misery than their factions occasioned." In this companycame a boy, named Henry Spelman, whose subsequent career possessesconsiderable interest.
Some of these Captains whom Smith had sent home, now returned withnew pretensions, and had on the voyage prejudiced the company againsthim. When the fleet was first espied, the President thought it wasSpaniards, and prepared to defend himself, the Indians promptlycoming to his assistance.
This hurricane tossed about another expedition still more famous,that of Henry Hudson, who had sailed from England on his third voyagetoward Nova Zembla March 25th, and in July and August was beatingdown the Atlantic coast. On the 18th of August he entered the Capesof Virginia, and sailed a little way up the Bay. He knew he was atthe mouth of the James River, "where our Englishmen are," as he says.
The next day a gale from the northeast made him fear being drivenaground in the shallows, and he put to sea. The storm continued forseveral days. On the 21st "a sea broke over the fore-course andsplit it;" and that night something more ominous occurred: "thatnight [the chronicle records] our cat ran crying from one side of theship to the other, looking overboard, which made us to wonder, but wesaw nothing." On the 26th they were again off the bank of Virginia,and in the very bay and in sight of the islands they had seen on the18th. It appeared to Hudson "a great bay with rivers," but tooshallow to explore without a small boat. After lingering till the29th, without any suggestion of ascending the James, he sailednorthward and made the lucky stroke of river exploration whichimmortalized him.
It seems strange that he did not search for the English colony, butthe adventurers of that day were independent actors, and did not careto share with each other the glories of discovery.
The first of the scattered fleet of Gates and Somers came in on the11th, and the rest straggled along during the three or four daysfollowing. It was a narrow chance that Hudson missed them all, andone may imagine that the fate of the Virginia colony and of the NewYork settlement would have been different if the explorer of theHudson had gone up the James.
No sooner had the newcomers landed than trouble began. They wouldhave deposed Smith on report of the new commission, but they couldshow no warrant. Smith professed himself willing to retire toEngland, but, seeing the new commission did not arrive, held on tohis authority, and began to enforce it to save the whole colony fromanarchy. He depicts the situation in a paragraph: "To a thousandmischiefs these lewd Captains led this lewd company, wherein weremany unruly gallants, packed thither by their friends to escape illdestinies, and those would dispose and determine of the government,sometimes to one, the next day to another; today the old commissionmust rule, tomorrow the new, the next day neither; in fine, theywould rule all or ruin all; yet in charity we must endure them thusto destroy us, or by correcting their follies, have brought theworld's censure upon us to be guilty of their blouds. Happie had webeene had they never arrived, and we forever abandoned, as we wereleft to our fortunes; for on earth for their number was never moreconfusion or misery than their factions occasioned." In this companycame a boy, named Henry Spelman, whose subsequent career possessesconsiderable interest.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
You said--
"You said--?" asked Miss Seyffert.
"That I have some writing to do--before the post goes," said the doctor brightly.
"Oh! come and see the cathedral!" cried Sir Richmond with ill-concealed dismay. He was, if one may put it in such a fashion, not looking at Miss Seyffert in the directest fashion when he said this.
"I'm afraid," said the doctor mulishly. "Impossible."
(With the unspoken addition of, "You try her for a bit.")
Miss Grammont stood up. Everybody stood up. "We can go first to look for shops," she said. "There's those things you want to buy, Belinda; a fountain pen and the little books. We can all go together as far as that. And while you are shopping, if you wouldn't mind getting one or two things for me...."
It became clear to Dr. Martineau that Sir Richmond was to be let off Belinda. It seemed abominably unjust. And it was also clear to him that he must keep closely to his own room or he might find Miss Seyffert drifting back alone to the hotel and eager to resume with him....
Well, a quiet time in his room would not be disagreeable. He could think over his notes....
But in reality he thought over nothing but the little speeches he would presently make to Sir Richmond about the unwarrantable, the absolutely unwarrantable, alterations that were being made without his consent in their common programme....
For a long time Sir Richmond had met no one so interesting and amusing as this frank-minded young woman from America. "Young woman" was how he thought of her; she didn't correspond to anything so prim and restrained and extensively reserved and withheld as a "young lady "; and though he judged her no older than five and twenty, the word "girl" with its associations of virginal ignorances, invisible purdah, and trite ideas newly discovered, seemed even less appropriate for her than the word "boy." She had an air of having in some obscure way graduated in life, as if so far she had lived each several year of her existence in a distinctive and conclusive manner with the utmost mental profit and no particular tarnish or injury. He could talk with her as if he talked with a man like himself--but with a zest no man could give him.
It was evident that the good things she had said at first came as the natural expression of a broad stream of alert thought; they were no mere display specimens from one of those jackdaw collections of bright things so many clever women waste their wits in accumulating. She was not talking for effect at all, she was talking because she was tremendously interested in her discovery of the spectacle of history, and delighted to find another person as possessed as she was.
Belinda having been conducted to her shops, the two made their way through the bright evening sunlight to the compact gracefulness of the cathedral. A glimpse through a wrought-iron gate of a delightful garden of spring flowers, alyssum, aubrietia, snow-upon-the-mountains, daffodils, narcissus and the like, held them for a time, and then they came out upon the level, grassy space, surrounded by little ripe old houses, on which the cathedral stands. They stood for some moments surveying it.
"That I have some writing to do--before the post goes," said the doctor brightly.
"Oh! come and see the cathedral!" cried Sir Richmond with ill-concealed dismay. He was, if one may put it in such a fashion, not looking at Miss Seyffert in the directest fashion when he said this.
"I'm afraid," said the doctor mulishly. "Impossible."
(With the unspoken addition of, "You try her for a bit.")
Miss Grammont stood up. Everybody stood up. "We can go first to look for shops," she said. "There's those things you want to buy, Belinda; a fountain pen and the little books. We can all go together as far as that. And while you are shopping, if you wouldn't mind getting one or two things for me...."
It became clear to Dr. Martineau that Sir Richmond was to be let off Belinda. It seemed abominably unjust. And it was also clear to him that he must keep closely to his own room or he might find Miss Seyffert drifting back alone to the hotel and eager to resume with him....
Well, a quiet time in his room would not be disagreeable. He could think over his notes....
But in reality he thought over nothing but the little speeches he would presently make to Sir Richmond about the unwarrantable, the absolutely unwarrantable, alterations that were being made without his consent in their common programme....
For a long time Sir Richmond had met no one so interesting and amusing as this frank-minded young woman from America. "Young woman" was how he thought of her; she didn't correspond to anything so prim and restrained and extensively reserved and withheld as a "young lady "; and though he judged her no older than five and twenty, the word "girl" with its associations of virginal ignorances, invisible purdah, and trite ideas newly discovered, seemed even less appropriate for her than the word "boy." She had an air of having in some obscure way graduated in life, as if so far she had lived each several year of her existence in a distinctive and conclusive manner with the utmost mental profit and no particular tarnish or injury. He could talk with her as if he talked with a man like himself--but with a zest no man could give him.
It was evident that the good things she had said at first came as the natural expression of a broad stream of alert thought; they were no mere display specimens from one of those jackdaw collections of bright things so many clever women waste their wits in accumulating. She was not talking for effect at all, she was talking because she was tremendously interested in her discovery of the spectacle of history, and delighted to find another person as possessed as she was.
Belinda having been conducted to her shops, the two made their way through the bright evening sunlight to the compact gracefulness of the cathedral. A glimpse through a wrought-iron gate of a delightful garden of spring flowers, alyssum, aubrietia, snow-upon-the-mountains, daffodils, narcissus and the like, held them for a time, and then they came out upon the level, grassy space, surrounded by little ripe old houses, on which the cathedral stands. They stood for some moments surveying it.
“Our road runs through the dark
“Our road runs through the dark,” said Oros, “though were it day we might climb the outer snows, but this at night it is dangerous to do.”
Then taking torches, he lit them at a lamp and gave one to each of us.
Now our climb began. Up endless sloping galleries we went, hewn with inconceivable labour by the primeval fire-worshippers from the living rock of the Mountain. It seemed to me that they stretched for miles, and indeed this was so, since, although the slope was always gentle, it took us more than an hour to climb them. At length we came to the foot of a great stair.
“Rest awhile here, my lord,” Oros said, bowing to Leo with the reverence that he had shown him from the first, “for this stair is steep and long. Now we stand upon the Mountain’s topmost lip, and are about to climb that tall looped column which soars above.”
So we sat down in the vault-like place and let the sharp draught of air rushing to and from the passages play upon us, for we were heated with journeying up those close galleries. As we sat thus I heard a roaring sound and asked Oros what it might be. He answered that we were very near to the crater of the volcano, and that what we heard through the thickness of the rock was the rushing of its everlasting fires. Then the ascent commenced.
It was not dangerous though very wearisome, for there were nearly six hundred of those steps. The climb of the passages had reminded me of that of the gallery of the Great Pyramid drawn out for whole furlongs; that of the pillar was like the ascent of a cathedral spire, or rather of several spires piled one upon another.
Resting from time to time, we dragged ourselves up the steep steps, each of them quite a foot in height, till the pillar was climbed and only the loop remained. Up it we went also, Oros leading us, and glad was I that the stairway still ran within the substance of the rock, for I could feel the needle’s mighty eye quiver in the rush of the winds which swept about its sides.
At length we saw light before us, and in another twenty steps emerged upon a platform. As Leo, who went in front of me, walked from the stairway I saw Oros and another priest seize him by the arms, and called to him to ask what they were doing.
“Nothing,” he cried back, “except that this is a dizzy place and they feared lest I should fall. Mind how you come, Horace,” and he stretched out his hand to me.
Now I was clear of the tunnel, and I believe that had it not been for that hand I should have sunk to the rocky floor, for the sight before me seemed to paralyse my brain. Nor was this to be wondered at, for I doubt whether the world can show such another.
We stood upon the very apex of the loop, a flat space of rock about eighty yards in length by some thirty in breadth, with the star-strewn sky above us. To the south, twenty thousand feet or more below, stretched the dim Plain of Kaloon, and to the east and west the snow-clad shoulders of the peak and the broad brown slopes beneath. To the north was a different sight, and one more awesome. There, right under us as it seemed, for the pillar bent inwards, lay the vast crater of the volcano, and in the centre of it a wide lake of fire that broke into bubbles and flowers of sudden flame or spouted, writhed and twisted like an angry sea.
Then taking torches, he lit them at a lamp and gave one to each of us.
Now our climb began. Up endless sloping galleries we went, hewn with inconceivable labour by the primeval fire-worshippers from the living rock of the Mountain. It seemed to me that they stretched for miles, and indeed this was so, since, although the slope was always gentle, it took us more than an hour to climb them. At length we came to the foot of a great stair.
“Rest awhile here, my lord,” Oros said, bowing to Leo with the reverence that he had shown him from the first, “for this stair is steep and long. Now we stand upon the Mountain’s topmost lip, and are about to climb that tall looped column which soars above.”
So we sat down in the vault-like place and let the sharp draught of air rushing to and from the passages play upon us, for we were heated with journeying up those close galleries. As we sat thus I heard a roaring sound and asked Oros what it might be. He answered that we were very near to the crater of the volcano, and that what we heard through the thickness of the rock was the rushing of its everlasting fires. Then the ascent commenced.
It was not dangerous though very wearisome, for there were nearly six hundred of those steps. The climb of the passages had reminded me of that of the gallery of the Great Pyramid drawn out for whole furlongs; that of the pillar was like the ascent of a cathedral spire, or rather of several spires piled one upon another.
Resting from time to time, we dragged ourselves up the steep steps, each of them quite a foot in height, till the pillar was climbed and only the loop remained. Up it we went also, Oros leading us, and glad was I that the stairway still ran within the substance of the rock, for I could feel the needle’s mighty eye quiver in the rush of the winds which swept about its sides.
At length we saw light before us, and in another twenty steps emerged upon a platform. As Leo, who went in front of me, walked from the stairway I saw Oros and another priest seize him by the arms, and called to him to ask what they were doing.
“Nothing,” he cried back, “except that this is a dizzy place and they feared lest I should fall. Mind how you come, Horace,” and he stretched out his hand to me.
Now I was clear of the tunnel, and I believe that had it not been for that hand I should have sunk to the rocky floor, for the sight before me seemed to paralyse my brain. Nor was this to be wondered at, for I doubt whether the world can show such another.
We stood upon the very apex of the loop, a flat space of rock about eighty yards in length by some thirty in breadth, with the star-strewn sky above us. To the south, twenty thousand feet or more below, stretched the dim Plain of Kaloon, and to the east and west the snow-clad shoulders of the peak and the broad brown slopes beneath. To the north was a different sight, and one more awesome. There, right under us as it seemed, for the pillar bent inwards, lay the vast crater of the volcano, and in the centre of it a wide lake of fire that broke into bubbles and flowers of sudden flame or spouted, writhed and twisted like an angry sea.
At this she let go my wrist and covered her face with her hands passionately
At this she let go my wrist and covered her face with her hands passionately. When she dropped them she had the look of one morally crushed.
“What did he say to you?”
“He raved.”
“Listen to me. It was all true!”
“I daresay, but what of that?”
These ghostly words passed between us hardly louder than thoughts; but after my last answer she ceased and gave me a searching stare, then drew in a long breath. The voice on the other side of the door burst out with an impassioned request for a little pity, just a little, and went on begging for a few words, for two words, for one word — one poor little word. Then it gave up, then repeated once more, “Say you are there, Rita, Say one word, just one word. Say ‘yes.’ Come! Just one little yes.”
“You see,” I said. She only lowered her eyelids over the anxious glance she had turned on me.
For a minute we could have had the illusion that he had stolen away, unheard, on the thick mats. But I don’t think that either of us was deceived. The voice returned, stammering words without connection, pausing and faltering, till suddenly steadied it soared into impassioned entreaty, sank to low, harsh tones, voluble, lofty sometimes and sometimes abject. When it paused it left us looking profoundly at each other.
“It’s almost comic,” I whispered.
“Yes. One could laugh,” she assented, with a sort of sinister conviction. Never had I seen her look exactly like that, for an instant another, an incredible Rita! “Haven’t I laughed at him innumerable times?” she added in a sombre whisper.
He was muttering to himself out there, and unexpectedly shouted: “What?” as though he had fancied he had heard something. He waited a while before he started up again with a loud: “Speak up, Queen of the goats, with your goat tricks. . .” All was still for a time, then came a most awful bang on the door. He must have stepped back a pace to hurl himself bodily against the panels. The whole house seemed to shake. He repeated that performance once more, and then varied it by a prolonged drumming with his fists. It WAS comic. But I felt myself struggling mentally with an invading gloom as though I were no longer sure of myself.
“Take me out,” whispered Dona Rita feverishly, “take me out of this house before it is too late.”
“You will have to stand it,” I answered.
“So be it; but then you must go away yourself. Go now, before it is too late.”
I didn’t condescend to answer this. The drumming on the panels stopped and the absurd thunder of it died out in the house. I don’t know why precisely then I had the acute vision of the red mouth of Jose Ortega wriggling with rage between his funny whiskers. He began afresh but in a tired tone:
“Do you expect a fellow to forget your tricks, you wicked little devil? Haven’t you ever seen me dodging about to get a sight of you amongst those pretty gentlemen, on horseback, like a princess, with pure cheeks like a carved saint? I wonder I didn’t throw stones at you, I wonder I didn’t run after you shouting the tale — curse my timidity! But I daresay they knew as much as I did. More. All the new tricks — if that were possible.”
“What did he say to you?”
“He raved.”
“Listen to me. It was all true!”
“I daresay, but what of that?”
These ghostly words passed between us hardly louder than thoughts; but after my last answer she ceased and gave me a searching stare, then drew in a long breath. The voice on the other side of the door burst out with an impassioned request for a little pity, just a little, and went on begging for a few words, for two words, for one word — one poor little word. Then it gave up, then repeated once more, “Say you are there, Rita, Say one word, just one word. Say ‘yes.’ Come! Just one little yes.”
“You see,” I said. She only lowered her eyelids over the anxious glance she had turned on me.
For a minute we could have had the illusion that he had stolen away, unheard, on the thick mats. But I don’t think that either of us was deceived. The voice returned, stammering words without connection, pausing and faltering, till suddenly steadied it soared into impassioned entreaty, sank to low, harsh tones, voluble, lofty sometimes and sometimes abject. When it paused it left us looking profoundly at each other.
“It’s almost comic,” I whispered.
“Yes. One could laugh,” she assented, with a sort of sinister conviction. Never had I seen her look exactly like that, for an instant another, an incredible Rita! “Haven’t I laughed at him innumerable times?” she added in a sombre whisper.
He was muttering to himself out there, and unexpectedly shouted: “What?” as though he had fancied he had heard something. He waited a while before he started up again with a loud: “Speak up, Queen of the goats, with your goat tricks. . .” All was still for a time, then came a most awful bang on the door. He must have stepped back a pace to hurl himself bodily against the panels. The whole house seemed to shake. He repeated that performance once more, and then varied it by a prolonged drumming with his fists. It WAS comic. But I felt myself struggling mentally with an invading gloom as though I were no longer sure of myself.
“Take me out,” whispered Dona Rita feverishly, “take me out of this house before it is too late.”
“You will have to stand it,” I answered.
“So be it; but then you must go away yourself. Go now, before it is too late.”
I didn’t condescend to answer this. The drumming on the panels stopped and the absurd thunder of it died out in the house. I don’t know why precisely then I had the acute vision of the red mouth of Jose Ortega wriggling with rage between his funny whiskers. He began afresh but in a tired tone:
“Do you expect a fellow to forget your tricks, you wicked little devil? Haven’t you ever seen me dodging about to get a sight of you amongst those pretty gentlemen, on horseback, like a princess, with pure cheeks like a carved saint? I wonder I didn’t throw stones at you, I wonder I didn’t run after you shouting the tale — curse my timidity! But I daresay they knew as much as I did. More. All the new tricks — if that were possible.”
Friday, November 2, 2012
“Presently
“Presently, too, I seemed to become aware of another presence, and now you will understand why I desire and must ask that my identity should be suppressed. Naturally enough I do not wish to be mixed up with a superstitious tale which is, on the face of it, impossible and absurd. Yet under all the circumstances I think it right to tell you that I saw, or thought I saw, something gather in the shadow of the central dolmen, or emerge from its rude chamber — I know not which for certain — something bright and glorious which gradually took the form of a woman upon whose forehead burned a star-like fire.
“At any rate the vision or reflection, or whatever it was, startled me so much that I came to a halt under the lee of one of the monoliths, and found myself unable even to call to the distraught man whom I pursued.
“Whilst I stood thus it became clear to me that Mr. Holly also saw something. At least he turned towards the Radiance in the shadow, uttered one cry; a wild, glad cry, and stepped forward; then seemed to fall through it on to his face.
“When I reached the spot the light had vanished, and all I found was Mr. Holly, his arms still outstretched, and the sceptre gripped tightly in his hand, lying quite dead in the shadow of the trilithon.”
The rest of the doctor’s letter need not be quoted as it deals only with certain very improbable explanations of the origin of this figure of light, the details of the removal of Holly’s body, and of how he managed to satisfy the coroner that no inquest was necessary.
The box of which he speaks arrived safely. Of the drawings in it I need say nothing, and of the sistrum or sceptre only a few words. It was fashioned of crystal to the well-known shape of the Crux-ansata , or the emblem of life of the Egyptians; the rod, the cross and the loop combined in one. From side to side of this loop ran golden wires, and on these were strung gems of three colours, glittering diamonds, sea-blue sapphires, and blood-red rubies, while to the fourth wire, that at the top, hung four little golden bells.
When I took hold of it first my arm shook slightly with excitement, and those bells began to sound; a sweet, faint music like to that of chimes heard far away at night in the silence of the sea. I thought too, but perhaps this was fancy, that a thrill passed from the hallowed and beautiful thing into my body.
On the mystery itself, as it is recorded in the manuscript, I make no comment. Of it and its inner significations every reader must form his or her own judgment. One thing alone is clear to me — on the hypothesis that Mr. Holly tells the truth as to what he and Leo Vincey saw and experienced, which I at least believe — that though sundry interpretations of this mystery were advanced by Ayesha and others, none of them are quite satisfactory.
Indeed, like Mr. Holly, I incline to the theory that She, if I may still call her by that name although it is seldom given to her in these pages, put forward some of them, such as the vague Isis-myth, and the wondrous picture-story of the Mountain-fire, as mere veils to hide the truth which it was her purpose to reveal at last in that song she never sang.
“At any rate the vision or reflection, or whatever it was, startled me so much that I came to a halt under the lee of one of the monoliths, and found myself unable even to call to the distraught man whom I pursued.
“Whilst I stood thus it became clear to me that Mr. Holly also saw something. At least he turned towards the Radiance in the shadow, uttered one cry; a wild, glad cry, and stepped forward; then seemed to fall through it on to his face.
“When I reached the spot the light had vanished, and all I found was Mr. Holly, his arms still outstretched, and the sceptre gripped tightly in his hand, lying quite dead in the shadow of the trilithon.”
The rest of the doctor’s letter need not be quoted as it deals only with certain very improbable explanations of the origin of this figure of light, the details of the removal of Holly’s body, and of how he managed to satisfy the coroner that no inquest was necessary.
The box of which he speaks arrived safely. Of the drawings in it I need say nothing, and of the sistrum or sceptre only a few words. It was fashioned of crystal to the well-known shape of the Crux-ansata , or the emblem of life of the Egyptians; the rod, the cross and the loop combined in one. From side to side of this loop ran golden wires, and on these were strung gems of three colours, glittering diamonds, sea-blue sapphires, and blood-red rubies, while to the fourth wire, that at the top, hung four little golden bells.
When I took hold of it first my arm shook slightly with excitement, and those bells began to sound; a sweet, faint music like to that of chimes heard far away at night in the silence of the sea. I thought too, but perhaps this was fancy, that a thrill passed from the hallowed and beautiful thing into my body.
On the mystery itself, as it is recorded in the manuscript, I make no comment. Of it and its inner significations every reader must form his or her own judgment. One thing alone is clear to me — on the hypothesis that Mr. Holly tells the truth as to what he and Leo Vincey saw and experienced, which I at least believe — that though sundry interpretations of this mystery were advanced by Ayesha and others, none of them are quite satisfactory.
Indeed, like Mr. Holly, I incline to the theory that She, if I may still call her by that name although it is seldom given to her in these pages, put forward some of them, such as the vague Isis-myth, and the wondrous picture-story of the Mountain-fire, as mere veils to hide the truth which it was her purpose to reveal at last in that song she never sang.
Malcolm was so used to being addressed as little grandfather
Malcolm was so used to being addressed as "little grandfather," and that for all his obvious youth, that he saw nothing funny in the address.
"God save you, my little man," he replied.
The new-comer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin, and black eyebrows that met above his nose. Malcolm Hay knew the type, but to-day being for idleness, he did not dread the man's loquacity as he would had it been a working day.
"My name is Gleb," introduced the man: "I come from the village of Potchkoi where my father has seven cows and a bull."
"God give him prosperity and many calves," said Malcolm mechanically.
"Tell me, _gospodar_, do you ride into our holy city to-day?"
"Surely," said Malcolm.
"Then you will do well to avoid the Street of Black Mud," said Gleb.
Malcolm waited.
"I speak wisely because of my name," said the man with calm assurance; "possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name as the great saint who lies yonder," he pointed to one of the towering belfries shimmering with gold that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill. "I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the Holy Ones. Also, it was prophesied by a wise woman," said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, "that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible."
"All this is very interesting, little brother," said Malcolm with a smile, "but first you must tell me why I should not go into the Street of Black Mud."
The man laughed softly.
"Because of Israel Kensky," he said significantly.
You could not live within a hundred miles of Kieff and not know of Israel Kensky. Malcolm realized with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London.
"In what way has Israel Kensky offended?" asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man's tone.
Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers.
"Little father," he said, "all men know Israel Kensky is a Jew and that he practises secret devil-rites, using the blood of Christian children. This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows. Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost."
Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited.
"To-day I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check--or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again."
"But why should they kill Kensky?" asked Malcolm.
It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.
The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied:
"_Gospodar_, it is known that this man has a book which is called 'The Book of All-Power!'"
"God save you, my little man," he replied.
The new-comer was a broad-faced, pleasant-looking fellow with a ready grin, and black eyebrows that met above his nose. Malcolm Hay knew the type, but to-day being for idleness, he did not dread the man's loquacity as he would had it been a working day.
"My name is Gleb," introduced the man: "I come from the village of Potchkoi where my father has seven cows and a bull."
"God give him prosperity and many calves," said Malcolm mechanically.
"Tell me, _gospodar_, do you ride into our holy city to-day?"
"Surely," said Malcolm.
"Then you will do well to avoid the Street of Black Mud," said Gleb.
Malcolm waited.
"I speak wisely because of my name," said the man with calm assurance; "possibly your excellence has wondered why I should bear the same name as the great saint who lies yonder," he pointed to one of the towering belfries shimmering with gold that rose above the shoulder of a distant hill. "I am Gleb, the son of Gleb, and it is said that we go back a thousand years to the Holy Ones. Also, it was prophesied by a wise woman," said the peasant, puffing out a cloud of smoke and crossing himself at the same time, "that I should go the way of holiness and that after my death my body should be incorruptible."
"All this is very interesting, little brother," said Malcolm with a smile, "but first you must tell me why I should not go into the Street of Black Mud."
The man laughed softly.
"Because of Israel Kensky," he said significantly.
You could not live within a hundred miles of Kieff and not know of Israel Kensky. Malcolm realized with a start that he had not met the old man since he left him in London.
"In what way has Israel Kensky offended?" asked Malcolm, understanding the menace in the man's tone.
Gleb, squatting in the dust, brushed his sheepskin delicately with the tips of his fingers.
"Little father," he said, "all men know Israel Kensky is a Jew and that he practises secret devil-rites, using the blood of Christian children. This is the way of Jews, as your lordship knows. Also he was seen on the plains to shoot pigeons, which is a terrible offence, for to shoot a pigeon is to kill the Holy Ghost."
Malcolm knew that the greater offence had not yet been stated and waited.
"To-day I think they will kill him if the Grand Duke does not send his soldiers to hold the people in check--or the Grand Duchess, his lovely daughter who has spoken for him before, does not speak again."
"But why should they kill Kensky?" asked Malcolm.
It was not the first time that Israel Kensky had been the subject of hostile demonstrations. The young engineer had heard these stories of horrible rites practised at the expense of Christian children, and had heard them so often that he was hardened to the repetition.
The grin had left the man's face and there was a fanatical light in the solemn eyes when he replied:
"_Gospodar_, it is known that this man has a book which is called 'The Book of All-Power!'"
She paused a moment
She paused a moment, her delicate nostrils quivering, and her face alight with the prescience of ungarnered splendours; then like a swooping swallow flitted to where, by dead Atene, the gold circlet fallen from the Khania’s hair lay upon the floor.
She stooped, lifted it, and coming to Leo held it high above his head. Slowly she let her hand fall until the glittering coronet rested for an instant on his brow. Then she spoke, in her glorious voice that rolled out rich and low, a very paean of triumph and of power.
“By this poor, earthly symbol I create thee King of Earth; yea in its round for thee is gathered all her rule. Be thou its king, and mine!”
Again the coronet was held aloft, again it sank, and again she said or rather chanted —“With this unbroken ring, token of eternity, I swear to thee the boon of endless days. Endure thou while the world endures, and be its lord, and mine.”
A third time the coronet touched his brow.
“By this golden round I do endow thee with Wisdom’s perfect gold uncountable, that is the talisman whereat all nature’s secret paths shall open to thy feet. Victorious, victorious, tread thou her wondrous ways with me, till from her topmost peak at last she wafts us to our immortal throne whereof the columns twain are Life and Death.”
Then Ayesha cast away the crown and lo! it fell upon the breast of the lost Atene and rested there.
“Art content with these gifts of mine, my lord?” she cried.
Leo looked at her sadly and shook his head.
“What more wilt thou then? Ask and I swear it shall be thine.”
“Thou swearest; but wilt thou keep the oath?”
“Aye, by myself I swear; by myself and by the Strength that bred me. If it be ought that I can grant — then if I refuse it to thee, may such destruction fall upon me as will satisfy even Atene’s watching soul.”
I heard and I think that another heard also, at least once more the stony smile shone in the eyes of the Shaman.
“I ask of thee nothing that thou canst not give. Ayesha, I ask of thee thyself — not at some distant time when I have been bathed in a mysterious fire, but now, now this night.”
She shrank back from him a little, as though dismayed.
“Surely,” she said slowly, “I am like that foolish philosopher who, walking abroad to read the destinies of nations in the stars, fell down a pitfall dug by idle children and broke his bones and perished there. Never did I guess that with all these glories stretched before thee like mountain top on glittering mountain top, making a stairway for thy mortal feet to the very dome of heaven, thou wouldst still clutch at thy native earth and seek of it — but the common boon of woman’s love.
“Oh! Leo, I thought that thy soul was set upon nobler aims, that thou wouldst pray me for wider powers, for a more vast dominion; that as though they were but yonder fallen door of wood and iron, I should break for thee the bars of Hades, and like the Eurydice of old fable draw thee living down the steeps of Death, or throne thee midst the fires of the furthest sun to watch its subject worlds at play.
“Or I thought that thou wouldst bid me reveal what no woman ever told, the bitter, naked truth — all my sins and sorrows, all the wandering fancies of my fickle thought; even what thou knowest not and perchance ne’er shalt know, who I am and whence I came , and how to thy charmed eyes I seemed to change from foul to fair, and what is the purpose of my love for thee, and what the meaning of that tale of an angry goddess — who never was except in dreams.
She stooped, lifted it, and coming to Leo held it high above his head. Slowly she let her hand fall until the glittering coronet rested for an instant on his brow. Then she spoke, in her glorious voice that rolled out rich and low, a very paean of triumph and of power.
“By this poor, earthly symbol I create thee King of Earth; yea in its round for thee is gathered all her rule. Be thou its king, and mine!”
Again the coronet was held aloft, again it sank, and again she said or rather chanted —“With this unbroken ring, token of eternity, I swear to thee the boon of endless days. Endure thou while the world endures, and be its lord, and mine.”
A third time the coronet touched his brow.
“By this golden round I do endow thee with Wisdom’s perfect gold uncountable, that is the talisman whereat all nature’s secret paths shall open to thy feet. Victorious, victorious, tread thou her wondrous ways with me, till from her topmost peak at last she wafts us to our immortal throne whereof the columns twain are Life and Death.”
Then Ayesha cast away the crown and lo! it fell upon the breast of the lost Atene and rested there.
“Art content with these gifts of mine, my lord?” she cried.
Leo looked at her sadly and shook his head.
“What more wilt thou then? Ask and I swear it shall be thine.”
“Thou swearest; but wilt thou keep the oath?”
“Aye, by myself I swear; by myself and by the Strength that bred me. If it be ought that I can grant — then if I refuse it to thee, may such destruction fall upon me as will satisfy even Atene’s watching soul.”
I heard and I think that another heard also, at least once more the stony smile shone in the eyes of the Shaman.
“I ask of thee nothing that thou canst not give. Ayesha, I ask of thee thyself — not at some distant time when I have been bathed in a mysterious fire, but now, now this night.”
She shrank back from him a little, as though dismayed.
“Surely,” she said slowly, “I am like that foolish philosopher who, walking abroad to read the destinies of nations in the stars, fell down a pitfall dug by idle children and broke his bones and perished there. Never did I guess that with all these glories stretched before thee like mountain top on glittering mountain top, making a stairway for thy mortal feet to the very dome of heaven, thou wouldst still clutch at thy native earth and seek of it — but the common boon of woman’s love.
“Oh! Leo, I thought that thy soul was set upon nobler aims, that thou wouldst pray me for wider powers, for a more vast dominion; that as though they were but yonder fallen door of wood and iron, I should break for thee the bars of Hades, and like the Eurydice of old fable draw thee living down the steeps of Death, or throne thee midst the fires of the furthest sun to watch its subject worlds at play.
“Or I thought that thou wouldst bid me reveal what no woman ever told, the bitter, naked truth — all my sins and sorrows, all the wandering fancies of my fickle thought; even what thou knowest not and perchance ne’er shalt know, who I am and whence I came , and how to thy charmed eyes I seemed to change from foul to fair, and what is the purpose of my love for thee, and what the meaning of that tale of an angry goddess — who never was except in dreams.
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