But Shula was sitting very close to Lal on the sofa, almost taking him by the hand, by the arm, as if bent upon having a touch of his limbs. She was assuring him that she had reproduced his manuscript with great care. She worried lest the Xerox take away the ink and wipe the pages blank. She did page one dying of anxiety. "Such a special ink you use, and what if there should be a bad reaction . I would have died." But it worked beautifully. Mr. Widick said it was lovely copying. And it was in the two lockers. The copy was in a legal binder. Mr. Widick said you could even leave ransom money in Grand Central. Perfectly safe. Shula wanted Govinda Lal to see that the orange circle between the eyes had lunar significance. She kept tilting her face, offering her brow.
"Now, Shula, my dear," said Sammler. "Margotte needs help in the kitchen. Go and help her."
"Oh, Father."
She tried, speaking aside in Polish, to tell him she wished to stay.
"Shula! Go! Go on now—go!
As she obeyed, her cheeks had a hot and bitter look. Before Lal she wanted to show filial submission, but her behind was huffy as she went.
"I would never have recognized, never have identified her," said Lal.
"Yes? Without the wig. She often affects a wig."
He stopped. Govinda was thinking. Presumably about the recovery of his work from the locker. Yes. He felt his blazer pockets from beneath, making certain of the keys.
"You are Polish?" he said.
"I was Polish."
"Artur?"
"Yes. Like Schopenhauer, whom my mother read. Arthur, at that period, not very Jewish, was the most international, enlightened name you could give a boy. The same in all languages. But Schopenhauer didn't care for Jews. He called them vulgar optimists. Optimists? Living near the crater of Vesuvius, it is better to be an optimist. On my sixteenth birthday my mother gave me The World as Will and Idea. Naturally it was an agreeable compliment that I could be so serious and deep. Like the great Arthur. So I studied the system, and I still remember it. I learned that only Ideas are not overpowered by the Will—the cosmic force, the Will, which drives all things. A blinding power. The inner creative fury of the world. What we see are only its manifestations. Like Hindu philosophy—Maya, the veil of appearances that hangs over all human experience. Yes, and come to think of it, according to Schopenhauer, the seat of the Will in human beings is . . ."
"Where is it?"
"The organs of sex are the seat of the Will."
The thief in the lobby agreed. He took out the instrument of the Will. He drew aside not the veil of Maya itself but one of its forehangings and showed Sammler his metaphysical warrant.
"And you were a friend of the famous H. G. Wells—that much is true, isn't it?"
"I don't like to claim the friendship of a man who is not alive to affirm or deny it, but at one time, when he was in his seventies, I saw him often."
"Ah, then you must have lived in London."
"So we did, in Woburn Square near the British Museum. I took walks with the old man. In those days my own ideas didn't amount to much so I listened to his. Scientific humanism, faith in an emancipated future, in active benevolence, in reason, in civilization. Not popular ideas at the moment. Of course we have civilization but it is so disliked. I think you understand what I mean, Professor Lal."
Monday, November 26, 2012
And this is part of the very long story
"And this is part of the very long story?"
Both Giles and Weshler nodded. Keith suggested the doctor contact the doctors at St. Francis Hospital in Topeka, and perhaps the little group could devise a plan for dealing with Travis Boyette.
"Where is he now?" Weshler asked.
"He's in a small ward on the third floor," the doctor said.
"Could we see him?"
"Not now, he needs to rest."
"Then could we station ourselves outside the ward," Giles said. "We anticipate this man being charged with murder, and we have orders to secure him."
"He's not going anywhere."
Weshler bristled at this, and the doctor sensed the futility of arguing. "Follow me," he said. As they began to walk away, Keith said, "Hey, fellas, I'm free to go, right?"
Weshler looked at Giles, and Giles studied Weshler, then both looked at the doctor. Weshler said, "Sure, why not?"
"He's all yours," Keith said, already backing away. He left through the ER entrance and jogged to his car in a nearby parking garage. He found $6 in his dwindling cash reserves, paid the attendant, and gunned the Subaru onto the street. Free at last, he said to himself. It was exhilarating to glance over at the empty seat and know that he, with luck, would never again be near Travis Boyette.
Weshler and Giles were given folding chairs and took their positions in the hallway by the door to Ward 8. They called their supervisor and reported on Boyette's status. They found some magazines and began killing time. Through the door, there were six beds, each separated by flimsy curtains, all occupied by people suffering from serious afflictions. At the far end, there was a large window that overlooked a vacant lot, and next to the window was a door the janitors used on occasion.
The doctor returned, spoke to the troopers, then stepped inside for a quick check on Boyette. When he pulled the curtain by bed 4, he froze in disbelief.
The IVs were dangling. The bed was neatly made with a black walking cane across it. Boyette was gone.
Chapter 32
Robbie Flak and his little team stood by and watched the circus for two hours. Not long after the sheriff arrived and saw that there was indeed a grave site, Roop's Mountain attracted every cop within fifty miles. Local deputies, state troopers, the county coroner, investigators from the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and, finally, a crime scene expert. Radios squawked, men yelled, a helicopter hovered overhead. When the news arrived that Boyette had vanished, cops cursed his name as if they had known him forever. Robbie called Keith's cell phone and passed along the news. Keith explained what had happened at the hospital. He could not imagine Boyette being physically able to go far. They agreed that he would be caught, and soon.
By 2:00 p.m., Robbie was tired of the scene. He had told his story and answered a thousand questions from the investigators, there was nothing left to do. They had found Nicole Yarber, and they were ready to return to Slone and face a multitude of issues. Bryan Day had enough footage for a miniseries, but would be forced to sit on it for a few hours. Robbie informed the sheriff that they were leaving. The caravan, minus the Subaru, worked its way through the traffic until it was back on the highway and headed south. Carlos e-mailed dozens of photographs to the office, as well as the video. A presentation was being put together.
Both Giles and Weshler nodded. Keith suggested the doctor contact the doctors at St. Francis Hospital in Topeka, and perhaps the little group could devise a plan for dealing with Travis Boyette.
"Where is he now?" Weshler asked.
"He's in a small ward on the third floor," the doctor said.
"Could we see him?"
"Not now, he needs to rest."
"Then could we station ourselves outside the ward," Giles said. "We anticipate this man being charged with murder, and we have orders to secure him."
"He's not going anywhere."
Weshler bristled at this, and the doctor sensed the futility of arguing. "Follow me," he said. As they began to walk away, Keith said, "Hey, fellas, I'm free to go, right?"
Weshler looked at Giles, and Giles studied Weshler, then both looked at the doctor. Weshler said, "Sure, why not?"
"He's all yours," Keith said, already backing away. He left through the ER entrance and jogged to his car in a nearby parking garage. He found $6 in his dwindling cash reserves, paid the attendant, and gunned the Subaru onto the street. Free at last, he said to himself. It was exhilarating to glance over at the empty seat and know that he, with luck, would never again be near Travis Boyette.
Weshler and Giles were given folding chairs and took their positions in the hallway by the door to Ward 8. They called their supervisor and reported on Boyette's status. They found some magazines and began killing time. Through the door, there were six beds, each separated by flimsy curtains, all occupied by people suffering from serious afflictions. At the far end, there was a large window that overlooked a vacant lot, and next to the window was a door the janitors used on occasion.
The doctor returned, spoke to the troopers, then stepped inside for a quick check on Boyette. When he pulled the curtain by bed 4, he froze in disbelief.
The IVs were dangling. The bed was neatly made with a black walking cane across it. Boyette was gone.
Chapter 32
Robbie Flak and his little team stood by and watched the circus for two hours. Not long after the sheriff arrived and saw that there was indeed a grave site, Roop's Mountain attracted every cop within fifty miles. Local deputies, state troopers, the county coroner, investigators from the Missouri State Highway Patrol, and, finally, a crime scene expert. Radios squawked, men yelled, a helicopter hovered overhead. When the news arrived that Boyette had vanished, cops cursed his name as if they had known him forever. Robbie called Keith's cell phone and passed along the news. Keith explained what had happened at the hospital. He could not imagine Boyette being physically able to go far. They agreed that he would be caught, and soon.
By 2:00 p.m., Robbie was tired of the scene. He had told his story and answered a thousand questions from the investigators, there was nothing left to do. They had found Nicole Yarber, and they were ready to return to Slone and face a multitude of issues. Bryan Day had enough footage for a miniseries, but would be forced to sit on it for a few hours. Robbie informed the sheriff that they were leaving. The caravan, minus the Subaru, worked its way through the traffic until it was back on the highway and headed south. Carlos e-mailed dozens of photographs to the office, as well as the video. A presentation was being put together.
'But we must wait and hope
'But we must wait and hope, heart's-dearest. Come and let us bear ittogether. Emil's ship is lost, and as yet no news of him.'
It was well Mr Bhaer had taken his wife into his strong arms, for shelooked ready to drop, but bore up after a moment, and sitting by hergood man, heard all that there was to tell. Tidings had been sent tothe shipowners at Hamburg by some of the survivors, and telegraphedat once by Franz to his uncle. As one boat-load was safe, there washope that others might also escape, though the gale had sent two tothe bottom. A swift-sailing steamer had brought these scanty news,and happier ones might come at any hour; but kind Franz had not addedthat the sailors reported the captain's boat as undoubtedly wreckedby the falling mast, since the smoke hid its escape, and the galesoon drove all far asunder. But this sad rumour reached Plumfield intime; and deep was the mourning for the happyhearted Commodore, neverto come singing home again. Mrs Jo refused to believe it, stoutlyinsisting that Emil would outlive any storm and yet turn up safe andgay. It was well she clung to this hopeful view, for poor Mr Bhaerwas much afflicted by the loss of his boy, because his sister's sonshad been his so long he scarcely knew a different love for his veryown. Now was a chance for Mrs Juno to keep her word; and she did,speaking cheerily of Emil, even when hope waxed faint and her heartwas heavy. If anything could comfort the Bhaers for the loss of oneboy, it would have been the affection and sorrow shown by all therest. Franz kept the cable busy with his varying messages, Nat sentloving letters from Leipzig, and Tom harassed the shipping agents fornews. Even busy Jack wrote them with unusual warmth; Dolly and Georgecame often, bearing the loveliest flowers and the daintiest bon-bonsto cheer Mrs Bhaer and sweeten Josie's grief; while good-hearted Nedtravelled all the way from Chicago to press their hands and say, witha tear in his eye: 'I was so anxious to hear all about the dear oldboy, I couldn't keep away.'
'That's right comfortable, and shows me that if I didn't teach myboys anything else, I did give them the brotherly love that will makethem stand by one another all their lives,' said Mrs Jo, when he hadgone.
Rob answered reams of sympathizing letters, which showed how manyfriends they had; and the kindly praises of the lost man would havemade Emil a hero and a saint, had they all been true. The eldersbore it quietly, having learned submission in life's hard school; butthe younger people rebelled; some hoped against hope and kept up,others despaired at once, and little Josie, Emil's pet cousin andplaymate, was so broken-hearted nothing could comfort her. Nan dosedin vain, Daisy's cheerful words went by like the wind, and Bess'sdevices to amuse her all failed utterly. To cry in mother's arms andtalk about the wreck, which haunted her even in her sleep, was allshe cared to do; and Mrs Meg was getting anxious when Miss Cameronsent Josie a kind note bidding her learn bravely her first lesson inreal tragedy, and be like the self-sacrificing heroines she loved toact. That did the little girl good, and she made an effort in whichTeddy and Octoo helped her much; for the boy was deeply impressed bythis sudden eclipse of the firefly whose light and life all missedwhen they were gone, and lured her out every day for long drivesbehind the black mare, who shook her silvery bells till they madesuch merry music Josie could not help listening to it, and whiskedher over the snowy roads at a pace which set the blood dancing in herveins and sent her home strengthened and comforted by sunshine, freshair, and congenial society--three aids young sufferers seldom canresist.
Sunday, November 25, 2012
II Simon got to bed at half past four
II
Simon got to bed at half past four. At ten minutes past eight the telephone by his bed was ringing. “Mr. Lent? This is Sir James Macrae’s secretary speaking. Sir James’s car will call for you at half past eight to take you to the studio.” “I shan’t be ready as soon as that, I’m afraid.” There was a shocked pause; then, the day-secretary said: “Very well, Mr. Lent. I will see if some alternative arrangement is possible and ring you in a few minutes.” In the intervening time Simon fell asleep again. Then the bell woke him once more and the same impersonal voice addressed him. “Mr. Lent? I have spoken to Sir James. His car will call for you at eight forty-five.” Simon dressed hastily. Mrs. Shaw had not yet arrived, so there was no breakfast for him. He found some stale cake in the kitchen cupboard and was eating it when Sir James’s car arrived. He took a slice down with him, still munching. “You needn’t have brought that,” said a severe voice from inside the car. “Sir James has sent you some breakfast. Get in quickly; we’re late.” In the corner,rolex gmt, huddled in rugs, sat a young woman in a jaunty red hat; she had bright eyes and a very firm mouth. “I expect that you are Miss Harper.” “No. I’m Elfreda Grits. We’re working together on this film, I believe. I’ve been up all night with Sir James. If you don’t mind I’ll go to sleep for twenty minutes. You’ll find a thermos of cocoa and some rabbit pie in the basket on the floor.” “Does Sir James live on cocoa and rabbit pie?” “No; those are the remains of his supper. Please don’t talk. I want to sleep.” Simon disregarded the pie, but poured some steaming cocoa into the metal cap of the thermos flask. In the corner, Miss Grits composed herself for sleep. She took off the jaunty red hat and laid it between them on the seat,jeremy scott adidas 2012, veiled her eyes with two blue-pigmented lids and allowed the firm lips to relax and gape a little. Her platinum-blonde wind-swept head bobbed and swayed with the motion of the car as they swept out of London through converging and diverging tram lines. Stucco gave place to brick and the façades of the tube stations changed from tile to concrete; unoccupied building plots appeared and newly planted trees along unnamed avenues. Five minutes exactly before their arrival at the studio, Miss Grits opened her eyes, powdered her nose, touched her lips with red, and pulling her hat on to the side of her scalp, sat bolt upright, ready for another day. Sir James was at work on the lot when they arrived. In a white-hot incandescent hell two young people were carrying on an infinitely tedious conversation at what was presumably the table of a restaurant. A dozen emaciated couples in evening dress danced listlessly behind them. At the other end of the huge shed some carpenters were at work building the façade of a Tudor manor house. Men in eye-shades scuttled in and out. Notices stood everywhere. Do not Smoke. Do not Speak. Keep away from the high-power cable. Miss Grits, in defiance of these regulations, lit a cigarette, kicked some electric apparatus out of her path, said, “He’s busy. I expect he’ll see us when he’s through with this scene,” and disappeared through a door marked No admittance. Shortly after eleven o’clock Sir James caught sight of Simon. “Nice of you to come. Shan’t be long now,” he called out to him. “Mr. Briggs, get a chair for Mr. Lent.” At two o’clock he noticed him again. “Had any lunch?” “No,” said Simon. “No more have I. Just coming.” At half past three Miss Grits joined him and said: “Well, it’s been an easy day so far. You mustn’t think we’re always as slack as this. There’s a canteen across the yard. Come and have something to eat.” An enormous buffet was full of people in a variety of costume and make-up. Disappointed actresses in languorous attitudes served cups of tea and hard-boiled eggs. Simon and Miss Grits ordered sandwiches and were about to eat them when a loud-speaker above their heads suddenly announced with alarming distinctness, “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” “Come on, quick,” said Miss Grits. She bustled him through the swing doors, across the yard, into the office buildings and up a flight of stairs to a solid oak door marked Conference. Keep out. Too late. “Sir James has been called away,” said the secretary. “Will you meet him at the West End office at five-thirty.” Back to London,jeremy scott shop, this time by tube. At five-thirty they were at the Piccadilly office ready for the next clue in their treasure hunt. This took them to Hampstead. Finally at eight they were back at the studio. Miss Grits showed no sign of exhaustion. “Decent of the old boy to give us a day off,” she remarked. “He’s easy to work with in that way—after Hollywood. Let’s get some supper.” But as they opened the canteen doors and felt the warm breath of light refreshments, the loud-speaker again announced: “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” This time they were not too late. Sir James was there at the head of an oval table; round him were grouped the chiefs of his staff. He sat in a greatcoat with his head hung forward, elbows on the table and his hands clasped behind his neck. The staff sat in respectful sympathy. Presently he looked up, shook himself and smiled pleasantly. “Nice of you to come,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t see you before. Lots of small things to see to on a job like this. Had dinner?” “Not yet.” “Pity. Have to eat, you know. Can’t work at full pressure unless you eat plenty.” Then Simon and Miss Grits sat down and Sir James explained his plan. “I want, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce Mr. Lent to you. I’m sure you all know his name already and I daresay some of you know his work. Well, I’ve called him in to help us and I hope that when he’s heard the plan he’ll consent to join us. I want to produce a film of Hamlet. I daresay you don’t think that’s a very original idea—but it’s Angle that counts in the film world. I’m going to do it from an entirely new angle. That’s why I’ve called in Mr. Lent. I want him to write dialogue for us.” “But, surely,” said Simon, “there’s quite a lot of dialogue there already?” “Ah, you don’t see my angle. There have been plenty of productions of Shakespeare in modern dress. We are going to produce him in modern speech. How can you expect the public to enjoy Shakespeare when they can’t make head or tail of the dialogue. D’you know I began reading a copy the other day and blessed if I could understand it. At once I said, ‘What the public wants is Shakespeare with all his beauty of thought and character translated into the language of everyday life.’ Now Mr. Lent here was the man whose name naturally suggested itself. Many of the most high-class critics have commended Mr. Lent’s dialogue. Now my idea is that Miss Grits here shall act in an advisory capacity, helping with the continuity and the technical side, and that Mr. Lent shall be given a free hand with the scenario ...” The discourse lasted for a quarter of an hour; then the chiefs of staff nodded sagely; Simon was taken into another room and given a contract to sign by which he received £50 a week retaining fee and £250 advance. “You had better fix up with Miss Grits the times of work most suitable to you. I shall expect your first treatment by the end of the week. I should go and get some dinner if I were you. Must eat.” Slightly dizzy, Simon hurried to the canteen where two languorous blondes were packing up for the night. “We’ve been on since four o’clock this morning,” they said, “and the supers have eaten everything except the nougat. Sorry.” Sucking a bar of nougat Simon emerged into the now deserted studio. On three sides of him, to the height of twelve feet, rose in appalling completeness the marble walls of the scene-restaurant; at his elbow a bottle of imitation champagne still stood in its pail of melted ice; above and beyond extended the vast gloom of rafters and ceiling. “Fact,” said Simon to himself, “the world of action ... the pulse of life ... Money, hunger ... Reality.” Next morning he was called with the words, “Two young ladies waiting to see you.” “Two?” Simon put on his dressing gown and, orange juice in hand, entered his sitting room. Miss Grits nodded pleasantly. “We arranged to start at ten,” she said. “But it doesn’t really matter. I shall not require you very much in the early stages. This is Miss Dawkins. She is one of the staff stenographers. Sir James thought you would need one. Miss Dawkins will be attached to you until further notice. He also sent two copies of Hamlet. When you’ve had your bath, I’ll read you my notes for our first treatment.” But this was not to be; before Simon was dressed Miss Grits had been recalled to the studio on urgent business. “I’ll ring up and tell you when I am free,” she said. Simon spent the morning dictating letters to everyone he could think of; they began—“Please forgive me for dictating this, but I am so busy just now that I have little time for personal correspondence ...” Miss Dawkins sat deferentially over her pad. He gave her Sylvia’s number. “Will you get on to this number and present my compliments to Miss Lennox and ask her to luncheon at Espinoza’s ... And book a table for two there at one forty-five.” “Darling,” said Sylvia, when they met, “why were you out all yesterday and who was that voice this morning?” “Oh, that was Miss Dawkins, my stenographer.” “Simon, what can you mean?” “You see, I’ve joined the film industry.” “Darling. Do give me a job.” “Well, I’m not paying much attention to casting at the moment—but I’ll bear you in mind.” “Goodness. How you’ve changed in two days!” “Yes!” said Simon, with great complacency. “Yes, I think I have. You see, for the first time in my life I have come into contact with Real Life. I’m going to give up writing novels. It was a mug’s game anyway. The written word is dead—first the papyrus, then the printed book, now the film. The artist must no longer work alone. He is part of the age in which he lives; he must share (only of course, my dear Sylvia, in very different proportions) the weekly wage envelope of the proletarian. Vital art implies a corresponding set of social relationships. Co-operation ... co-ordination ... the hive endeavour of the community directed to a single end ...” Simon continued in this strain at some length, eating meantime a luncheon of Dickensian dimensions, until, in a small, miserable voice, Sylvia said: “It seems to me that you’ve fallen for some ghastly film star.” “O God,” said Simon, “only a virgin could be as vulgar as that.” They were about to start one of their old, interminable quarrels when the telephone boy brought a message that Miss Grits wished to resume work instantly. “So that’s her name,” said Sylvia. “If you only knew how funny that was,” said Simon, scribbling his initials on the bill and leaving the table while Sylvia was still groping with gloves and bag. As things turned out, however, he became Miss Grits’s lover before the week was out. The idea was hers. She suggested it to him one evening at his flat as they corrected the typescript of the final version of their first treatment. “No, really,” Simon said aghast. “No, really. It would be quite impossible. I’m sorry, but ...” “Why? Don’t you like women?” “Yes, but ...” “Oh, come along,” Miss Grits said briskly. “We don’t get much time for amusement ...” And later, as she packed their manuscripts into her attaché case she said,cheap jeremy scott adidas, “We must do it again if we have time. Besides I find it’s so much easier to work with a man if you’re having an affaire with him.”
Simon got to bed at half past four. At ten minutes past eight the telephone by his bed was ringing. “Mr. Lent? This is Sir James Macrae’s secretary speaking. Sir James’s car will call for you at half past eight to take you to the studio.” “I shan’t be ready as soon as that, I’m afraid.” There was a shocked pause; then, the day-secretary said: “Very well, Mr. Lent. I will see if some alternative arrangement is possible and ring you in a few minutes.” In the intervening time Simon fell asleep again. Then the bell woke him once more and the same impersonal voice addressed him. “Mr. Lent? I have spoken to Sir James. His car will call for you at eight forty-five.” Simon dressed hastily. Mrs. Shaw had not yet arrived, so there was no breakfast for him. He found some stale cake in the kitchen cupboard and was eating it when Sir James’s car arrived. He took a slice down with him, still munching. “You needn’t have brought that,” said a severe voice from inside the car. “Sir James has sent you some breakfast. Get in quickly; we’re late.” In the corner,rolex gmt, huddled in rugs, sat a young woman in a jaunty red hat; she had bright eyes and a very firm mouth. “I expect that you are Miss Harper.” “No. I’m Elfreda Grits. We’re working together on this film, I believe. I’ve been up all night with Sir James. If you don’t mind I’ll go to sleep for twenty minutes. You’ll find a thermos of cocoa and some rabbit pie in the basket on the floor.” “Does Sir James live on cocoa and rabbit pie?” “No; those are the remains of his supper. Please don’t talk. I want to sleep.” Simon disregarded the pie, but poured some steaming cocoa into the metal cap of the thermos flask. In the corner, Miss Grits composed herself for sleep. She took off the jaunty red hat and laid it between them on the seat,jeremy scott adidas 2012, veiled her eyes with two blue-pigmented lids and allowed the firm lips to relax and gape a little. Her platinum-blonde wind-swept head bobbed and swayed with the motion of the car as they swept out of London through converging and diverging tram lines. Stucco gave place to brick and the façades of the tube stations changed from tile to concrete; unoccupied building plots appeared and newly planted trees along unnamed avenues. Five minutes exactly before their arrival at the studio, Miss Grits opened her eyes, powdered her nose, touched her lips with red, and pulling her hat on to the side of her scalp, sat bolt upright, ready for another day. Sir James was at work on the lot when they arrived. In a white-hot incandescent hell two young people were carrying on an infinitely tedious conversation at what was presumably the table of a restaurant. A dozen emaciated couples in evening dress danced listlessly behind them. At the other end of the huge shed some carpenters were at work building the façade of a Tudor manor house. Men in eye-shades scuttled in and out. Notices stood everywhere. Do not Smoke. Do not Speak. Keep away from the high-power cable. Miss Grits, in defiance of these regulations, lit a cigarette, kicked some electric apparatus out of her path, said, “He’s busy. I expect he’ll see us when he’s through with this scene,” and disappeared through a door marked No admittance. Shortly after eleven o’clock Sir James caught sight of Simon. “Nice of you to come. Shan’t be long now,” he called out to him. “Mr. Briggs, get a chair for Mr. Lent.” At two o’clock he noticed him again. “Had any lunch?” “No,” said Simon. “No more have I. Just coming.” At half past three Miss Grits joined him and said: “Well, it’s been an easy day so far. You mustn’t think we’re always as slack as this. There’s a canteen across the yard. Come and have something to eat.” An enormous buffet was full of people in a variety of costume and make-up. Disappointed actresses in languorous attitudes served cups of tea and hard-boiled eggs. Simon and Miss Grits ordered sandwiches and were about to eat them when a loud-speaker above their heads suddenly announced with alarming distinctness, “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” “Come on, quick,” said Miss Grits. She bustled him through the swing doors, across the yard, into the office buildings and up a flight of stairs to a solid oak door marked Conference. Keep out. Too late. “Sir James has been called away,” said the secretary. “Will you meet him at the West End office at five-thirty.” Back to London,jeremy scott shop, this time by tube. At five-thirty they were at the Piccadilly office ready for the next clue in their treasure hunt. This took them to Hampstead. Finally at eight they were back at the studio. Miss Grits showed no sign of exhaustion. “Decent of the old boy to give us a day off,” she remarked. “He’s easy to work with in that way—after Hollywood. Let’s get some supper.” But as they opened the canteen doors and felt the warm breath of light refreshments, the loud-speaker again announced: “Sir James Macrae calling Mr. Lent and Miss Grits in the Conference Room.” This time they were not too late. Sir James was there at the head of an oval table; round him were grouped the chiefs of his staff. He sat in a greatcoat with his head hung forward, elbows on the table and his hands clasped behind his neck. The staff sat in respectful sympathy. Presently he looked up, shook himself and smiled pleasantly. “Nice of you to come,” he said. “Sorry I couldn’t see you before. Lots of small things to see to on a job like this. Had dinner?” “Not yet.” “Pity. Have to eat, you know. Can’t work at full pressure unless you eat plenty.” Then Simon and Miss Grits sat down and Sir James explained his plan. “I want, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce Mr. Lent to you. I’m sure you all know his name already and I daresay some of you know his work. Well, I’ve called him in to help us and I hope that when he’s heard the plan he’ll consent to join us. I want to produce a film of Hamlet. I daresay you don’t think that’s a very original idea—but it’s Angle that counts in the film world. I’m going to do it from an entirely new angle. That’s why I’ve called in Mr. Lent. I want him to write dialogue for us.” “But, surely,” said Simon, “there’s quite a lot of dialogue there already?” “Ah, you don’t see my angle. There have been plenty of productions of Shakespeare in modern dress. We are going to produce him in modern speech. How can you expect the public to enjoy Shakespeare when they can’t make head or tail of the dialogue. D’you know I began reading a copy the other day and blessed if I could understand it. At once I said, ‘What the public wants is Shakespeare with all his beauty of thought and character translated into the language of everyday life.’ Now Mr. Lent here was the man whose name naturally suggested itself. Many of the most high-class critics have commended Mr. Lent’s dialogue. Now my idea is that Miss Grits here shall act in an advisory capacity, helping with the continuity and the technical side, and that Mr. Lent shall be given a free hand with the scenario ...” The discourse lasted for a quarter of an hour; then the chiefs of staff nodded sagely; Simon was taken into another room and given a contract to sign by which he received £50 a week retaining fee and £250 advance. “You had better fix up with Miss Grits the times of work most suitable to you. I shall expect your first treatment by the end of the week. I should go and get some dinner if I were you. Must eat.” Slightly dizzy, Simon hurried to the canteen where two languorous blondes were packing up for the night. “We’ve been on since four o’clock this morning,” they said, “and the supers have eaten everything except the nougat. Sorry.” Sucking a bar of nougat Simon emerged into the now deserted studio. On three sides of him, to the height of twelve feet, rose in appalling completeness the marble walls of the scene-restaurant; at his elbow a bottle of imitation champagne still stood in its pail of melted ice; above and beyond extended the vast gloom of rafters and ceiling. “Fact,” said Simon to himself, “the world of action ... the pulse of life ... Money, hunger ... Reality.” Next morning he was called with the words, “Two young ladies waiting to see you.” “Two?” Simon put on his dressing gown and, orange juice in hand, entered his sitting room. Miss Grits nodded pleasantly. “We arranged to start at ten,” she said. “But it doesn’t really matter. I shall not require you very much in the early stages. This is Miss Dawkins. She is one of the staff stenographers. Sir James thought you would need one. Miss Dawkins will be attached to you until further notice. He also sent two copies of Hamlet. When you’ve had your bath, I’ll read you my notes for our first treatment.” But this was not to be; before Simon was dressed Miss Grits had been recalled to the studio on urgent business. “I’ll ring up and tell you when I am free,” she said. Simon spent the morning dictating letters to everyone he could think of; they began—“Please forgive me for dictating this, but I am so busy just now that I have little time for personal correspondence ...” Miss Dawkins sat deferentially over her pad. He gave her Sylvia’s number. “Will you get on to this number and present my compliments to Miss Lennox and ask her to luncheon at Espinoza’s ... And book a table for two there at one forty-five.” “Darling,” said Sylvia, when they met, “why were you out all yesterday and who was that voice this morning?” “Oh, that was Miss Dawkins, my stenographer.” “Simon, what can you mean?” “You see, I’ve joined the film industry.” “Darling. Do give me a job.” “Well, I’m not paying much attention to casting at the moment—but I’ll bear you in mind.” “Goodness. How you’ve changed in two days!” “Yes!” said Simon, with great complacency. “Yes, I think I have. You see, for the first time in my life I have come into contact with Real Life. I’m going to give up writing novels. It was a mug’s game anyway. The written word is dead—first the papyrus, then the printed book, now the film. The artist must no longer work alone. He is part of the age in which he lives; he must share (only of course, my dear Sylvia, in very different proportions) the weekly wage envelope of the proletarian. Vital art implies a corresponding set of social relationships. Co-operation ... co-ordination ... the hive endeavour of the community directed to a single end ...” Simon continued in this strain at some length, eating meantime a luncheon of Dickensian dimensions, until, in a small, miserable voice, Sylvia said: “It seems to me that you’ve fallen for some ghastly film star.” “O God,” said Simon, “only a virgin could be as vulgar as that.” They were about to start one of their old, interminable quarrels when the telephone boy brought a message that Miss Grits wished to resume work instantly. “So that’s her name,” said Sylvia. “If you only knew how funny that was,” said Simon, scribbling his initials on the bill and leaving the table while Sylvia was still groping with gloves and bag. As things turned out, however, he became Miss Grits’s lover before the week was out. The idea was hers. She suggested it to him one evening at his flat as they corrected the typescript of the final version of their first treatment. “No, really,” Simon said aghast. “No, really. It would be quite impossible. I’m sorry, but ...” “Why? Don’t you like women?” “Yes, but ...” “Oh, come along,” Miss Grits said briskly. “We don’t get much time for amusement ...” And later, as she packed their manuscripts into her attaché case she said,cheap jeremy scott adidas, “We must do it again if we have time. Besides I find it’s so much easier to work with a man if you’re having an affaire with him.”
And still
And still, on the summit of that hill he paused. He remembered the people he had seen inthat city, whose eyes held no love for him. And he thought of their feet so swift and brutal,cheap jeremy scott adidas wings, and thedark gray clothes they wore, and how when they passed they did not see him, or, if they saw him,they smirked. And how the lights, unceasing, crashed on and off above him, and how he was astranger there. Then he remembered his father and his mother, and all the arms stretched out tohold him back, to save him from this city where, they said, his soul would find perdition.
And certainly perdition sucked at the feet of the people who walked there; and cried in thelights, in the gigantic towers; the marks of Satan could be found in the faces of the people whowaited at the doors of movie houses; his words were printed on the great movie posters that invitedpeople to sin. It was the roar of the damned that filled Broadway, where motor-cars and buses andthe hurrying people disputed every inch with death. Broadway: the way that led to death wasbroad, and many could be found thereon; but narrow was the way that led to life eternal, and fewthere were who found it. But he did not long for the narrow way, where all his people walked;where the houses did not rise, piercing, as it seemed, the unchanging clouds, but huddled,Rolex Submariner Replica, flat,ignoble, close to the filthy ground, where the streets and the hallways and the rooms were dark,and where the unconquerable odor was of dust, and sweat, and urine, and home-made gin. In thenarrow way, the way of the cross, there awaited him only humiliation for ever; there awaited him,one day, a house like his father’s house, and a church like his father’s, and a job like his father’s,where he would grow old and black with hunger and toil. The way of the cross had given him abelly filled with wind and had bent his mother’s back; they had never worn fine clothes, but here,where the buildings contested God’s power and where the men and women did not fear God, herehe might eat and drink to his heart’s content and clothe his body with wondrous fabrics, rich to theeye and pleasing to the touch. And then what of his soul, which would one day come to die andstand naked before the judgment bar? What would his conquest of the city profit him on that day?
To hurl away, for a moment of ease, the glories of eternity!
These glories were unimaginable—but the city was real,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. He stood for a moment on themelting snow,Link, distracted, and then began to run down the hill, feeling himself fly as the descentbecame more rapid, and thinking: ‘I can climb back up. If it’s wrong, I can always climb back up.’
At the bottom of the hill, where the ground abruptly leveled off on to a gravel path, he nearlyknocked down an old white man with a white beard, who was walking very slowly and leaning onhis cane. They both stopped, astonished, and looked at one another. John struggled to catch hisbreath and apologize, but old man smiled. John smiled back. It was as though he and the old manhad between them a great secret; and the old man moved on. The snow glittered in patches all overthe park. Ice, under the pale, strong sun, melted slowly on the branches and trunks of trees.
And certainly perdition sucked at the feet of the people who walked there; and cried in thelights, in the gigantic towers; the marks of Satan could be found in the faces of the people whowaited at the doors of movie houses; his words were printed on the great movie posters that invitedpeople to sin. It was the roar of the damned that filled Broadway, where motor-cars and buses andthe hurrying people disputed every inch with death. Broadway: the way that led to death wasbroad, and many could be found thereon; but narrow was the way that led to life eternal, and fewthere were who found it. But he did not long for the narrow way, where all his people walked;where the houses did not rise, piercing, as it seemed, the unchanging clouds, but huddled,Rolex Submariner Replica, flat,ignoble, close to the filthy ground, where the streets and the hallways and the rooms were dark,and where the unconquerable odor was of dust, and sweat, and urine, and home-made gin. In thenarrow way, the way of the cross, there awaited him only humiliation for ever; there awaited him,one day, a house like his father’s house, and a church like his father’s, and a job like his father’s,where he would grow old and black with hunger and toil. The way of the cross had given him abelly filled with wind and had bent his mother’s back; they had never worn fine clothes, but here,where the buildings contested God’s power and where the men and women did not fear God, herehe might eat and drink to his heart’s content and clothe his body with wondrous fabrics, rich to theeye and pleasing to the touch. And then what of his soul, which would one day come to die andstand naked before the judgment bar? What would his conquest of the city profit him on that day?
To hurl away, for a moment of ease, the glories of eternity!
These glories were unimaginable—but the city was real,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. He stood for a moment on themelting snow,Link, distracted, and then began to run down the hill, feeling himself fly as the descentbecame more rapid, and thinking: ‘I can climb back up. If it’s wrong, I can always climb back up.’
At the bottom of the hill, where the ground abruptly leveled off on to a gravel path, he nearlyknocked down an old white man with a white beard, who was walking very slowly and leaning onhis cane. They both stopped, astonished, and looked at one another. John struggled to catch hisbreath and apologize, but old man smiled. John smiled back. It was as though he and the old manhad between them a great secret; and the old man moved on. The snow glittered in patches all overthe park. Ice, under the pale, strong sun, melted slowly on the branches and trunks of trees.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
‘Sebastian is in love with his own childhood
‘Sebastian is in love with his own childhood. That will make him very unhappy. His teddy-bear, his nanny and he is nineteen years old... ‘
She stirred on her sofa, shifting her weight so that she could look down at the passing boats, and said in fond, mocking tones: ‘How good it is to sit in the shade and talk of love,’ and then added with a sudden swoop to earth, ‘Sebastian drinks too much.’ ‘I suppose we both do.’
‘With you it does not matter. I have watched you together. With Sebastian it is different. He will be a drunkard if someone does not come to stop him. I have known so many. Alex was nearly a drunkard when he met me; it is in the blood. I see it in the way Sebastian drinks. It is not your way.’
We arrived in London on the day before term began. On the way from Charing Cross I dropped Sebastian in the forecourt of his mother’s house; ‘Here is “Marchers”,’ he said with a sigh which meant the end of a holiday. ‘I won’t ask you in, the place is probably full of my family. We’ll meet at Oxford’; I drove across the park to my home. My father greeted me with, his usual air of mild regret. ‘Here today,’ he said; ‘gone tomorrow. I seem to see very little of you. Perhaps it is dull for you here. How could it be otherwise? You have enjoyed yourself.’ ‘Very much. I went to Venice.’
‘Yes. Yes. I suppose so. The weather was fine?’ When he went to bed after an evening of silent study, he paused to ask: ‘The friend you were so much concerned about, did he die?’
‘No.’
‘I am very thankful. You should have written to tell me. I worried about him so much.’
青春的柔情啊——它是何等的非凡，何等的完美！又何其迅速，不可挽回地失去了它！而热情、慷慨、幻想、绝望，所有这些青春的传统品性——除了青春的柔情以外的所有品性——都是与我们生命同生同灭的。这些感情就是生命的一个组成部分。可是青春的柔情呢——那种精力充沛的懒散，那种孤芳自赏的情怀——这些只属于青春，并且与青春一起消逝。也许，在悬狱的殿堂里，为了补偿英雄们失去的至福幻象，他们正享受着青春柔情；或许至福幻象本身就同这种平凡的体验有着某种淡薄的血缘关系；总而言之，我相信，在布赖兹赫德度过的充满青春柔情的日子就像在天堂一样。
“为什么管这所房子叫做‘城堡’呢？”
“拆迁以前这是座城堡。”
“你这话是什么意思？”
“就是这意思。在一英里以外，就在下边村子旁边，有一座城堡。我们喜欢这座山谷，就把那个城堡拆了，把城堡的石块运到这儿，盖了一所新住宅。我很喜欢他们这种做法，你不喜欢吗？”
“如果这所房子是我的，我就哪儿也不去了。”
“可是你知道，查尔斯，这儿并不是我的。只是眼下算是我的，可是这里经常住满了狼吞虎咽的野兽。假如这儿能够总像现在这样——总是夏天，总是一个人，果子总是熟的，而阿洛伊修斯脾气总是很好……”
因此，我爱回忆那个夏天，当我们一起在那座迷人的宫殿里漫步时塞巴斯蒂安的样子。塞巴斯蒂安坐在轮椅里，沿着果园两边长着黄杨的道路上疾驰，寻找高山草莓和新鲜的无花果；他转动轮椅穿过一间间气味不同、气候迥异的温室，剪下麝香葡萄，挑选兰花插在我们衣服的扣眼上；塞巴斯蒂安手舞足蹈，一瘸一拐地到育婴室去，我们并排坐在育婴室里一块磨旧了的绣花地毯上，除了一个玩具柜，四周空空的，保姆霍金斯在一个角落里怡然自得地缝缀着东西，她唠叨着：“你们和别人一样坏；你们这一对坏孩子哟。这就是学校教你们的吗？”在柱廊里，塞巴斯蒂安就像现在这样仰卧在洒满阳光的位子上，我坐在他旁边一把硬椅子上，试着把喷泉画下来。
“这个圆顶也是伊内果•琼斯设计的吗？它的建筑年代看起来要晚些。”
“得啦，查尔斯，别像个旅行家似的。只要它好看就行了，管它什么时候造的呢！”
“像这种事我就喜欢知道。”
“嗨，亲爱的，我还以为我已经把你这些毛病都矫正好了呢——糟糕的科林斯先生啊。”
住在这样的房子里，从这个房间转悠到那个房间，从索恩式的图书室到中国式的客厅，那些镀金的宝塔和点头哈腰的中国清朝官员，彩色壁纸和奇彭代尔的精工细雕的木器家具，真是令人眼花缭乱，还可以从庞贝式的客厅转悠到挂着壁毯的大走廊，这个大走廊依然保持着当年的风貌，与二百五十年前设计时一样；还可以一连几小时坐在阴凉的地方眺望外面的平台，欣赏这一切，真是一番美学教育。
这个平台是这所房子设计中最完美的杰作；它坐落在巨石的壁垒上，俯瞰着湖水。因此走廊通往湖边的台阶非常陡峭，好像悬在湖面上，凭栏俯视仿佛可以把块卵石垂直投入脚下第一个湖泊里。平台由两排柱廊环抱，在亭子外，欧椴树林一直伸到林木繁茂的山坡上。平台有一部分铺了地面，另一部分辟为花坛和用矮小的黄杨拼成的阿拉伯图案；稍高些的黄杨长成密密的树篱，围成一个很宽的椭圆形，中间还插进一些壁龛，并且散置着一些雕像，椭圆形的中央喷出一股泉水，它耸立在这片壮观的园地上；像这样的喷泉装置可能在意大利南部城市的广场上找到；而这座喷泉装置是一个世纪以前由塞巴斯蒂安的祖先发现的，发现后就买下来运进来，它便在异域的、然而适宜的气候中重新竖立起来了。
塞巴斯蒂安让我把喷泉画下来。对于一个业余画家来说，画下这个喷泉是一个雄心勃勃之举——一个椭圆形的水池，水池中央是经过斧凿的岩石岛，岛上布置有整齐的石雕热带植物以及英国野生蕨类植物的逼真的叶子；十几道溪流在岩石间流过，仿如泉水，珍奇的石雕热带动物在泉水旁边奔逐嬉戏，有骆驼，长颈鹿，还有张牙舞爪的狮子等等，全都在喷水。岩石堆上，人形山头的顶部，矗立着一个红沙岩的埃及方尖塔——这件东西远非我的能力所能画好的，但是靠了某种很奇怪的运气，我竟把它画了出来，并且以审慎的精炼和漂亮的手法产生了一种很不错的皮拉内西的效果。“我把这张画送给你母亲好吗？”我问。
She stirred on her sofa, shifting her weight so that she could look down at the passing boats, and said in fond, mocking tones: ‘How good it is to sit in the shade and talk of love,’ and then added with a sudden swoop to earth, ‘Sebastian drinks too much.’ ‘I suppose we both do.’
‘With you it does not matter. I have watched you together. With Sebastian it is different. He will be a drunkard if someone does not come to stop him. I have known so many. Alex was nearly a drunkard when he met me; it is in the blood. I see it in the way Sebastian drinks. It is not your way.’
We arrived in London on the day before term began. On the way from Charing Cross I dropped Sebastian in the forecourt of his mother’s house; ‘Here is “Marchers”,’ he said with a sigh which meant the end of a holiday. ‘I won’t ask you in, the place is probably full of my family. We’ll meet at Oxford’; I drove across the park to my home. My father greeted me with, his usual air of mild regret. ‘Here today,’ he said; ‘gone tomorrow. I seem to see very little of you. Perhaps it is dull for you here. How could it be otherwise? You have enjoyed yourself.’ ‘Very much. I went to Venice.’
‘Yes. Yes. I suppose so. The weather was fine?’ When he went to bed after an evening of silent study, he paused to ask: ‘The friend you were so much concerned about, did he die?’
‘No.’
‘I am very thankful. You should have written to tell me. I worried about him so much.’
青春的柔情啊——它是何等的非凡，何等的完美！又何其迅速，不可挽回地失去了它！而热情、慷慨、幻想、绝望，所有这些青春的传统品性——除了青春的柔情以外的所有品性——都是与我们生命同生同灭的。这些感情就是生命的一个组成部分。可是青春的柔情呢——那种精力充沛的懒散，那种孤芳自赏的情怀——这些只属于青春，并且与青春一起消逝。也许，在悬狱的殿堂里，为了补偿英雄们失去的至福幻象，他们正享受着青春柔情；或许至福幻象本身就同这种平凡的体验有着某种淡薄的血缘关系；总而言之，我相信，在布赖兹赫德度过的充满青春柔情的日子就像在天堂一样。
“为什么管这所房子叫做‘城堡’呢？”
“拆迁以前这是座城堡。”
“你这话是什么意思？”
“就是这意思。在一英里以外，就在下边村子旁边，有一座城堡。我们喜欢这座山谷，就把那个城堡拆了，把城堡的石块运到这儿，盖了一所新住宅。我很喜欢他们这种做法，你不喜欢吗？”
“如果这所房子是我的，我就哪儿也不去了。”
“可是你知道，查尔斯，这儿并不是我的。只是眼下算是我的，可是这里经常住满了狼吞虎咽的野兽。假如这儿能够总像现在这样——总是夏天，总是一个人，果子总是熟的，而阿洛伊修斯脾气总是很好……”
因此，我爱回忆那个夏天，当我们一起在那座迷人的宫殿里漫步时塞巴斯蒂安的样子。塞巴斯蒂安坐在轮椅里，沿着果园两边长着黄杨的道路上疾驰，寻找高山草莓和新鲜的无花果；他转动轮椅穿过一间间气味不同、气候迥异的温室，剪下麝香葡萄，挑选兰花插在我们衣服的扣眼上；塞巴斯蒂安手舞足蹈，一瘸一拐地到育婴室去，我们并排坐在育婴室里一块磨旧了的绣花地毯上，除了一个玩具柜，四周空空的，保姆霍金斯在一个角落里怡然自得地缝缀着东西，她唠叨着：“你们和别人一样坏；你们这一对坏孩子哟。这就是学校教你们的吗？”在柱廊里，塞巴斯蒂安就像现在这样仰卧在洒满阳光的位子上，我坐在他旁边一把硬椅子上，试着把喷泉画下来。
“这个圆顶也是伊内果•琼斯设计的吗？它的建筑年代看起来要晚些。”
“得啦，查尔斯，别像个旅行家似的。只要它好看就行了，管它什么时候造的呢！”
“像这种事我就喜欢知道。”
“嗨，亲爱的，我还以为我已经把你这些毛病都矫正好了呢——糟糕的科林斯先生啊。”
住在这样的房子里，从这个房间转悠到那个房间，从索恩式的图书室到中国式的客厅，那些镀金的宝塔和点头哈腰的中国清朝官员，彩色壁纸和奇彭代尔的精工细雕的木器家具，真是令人眼花缭乱，还可以从庞贝式的客厅转悠到挂着壁毯的大走廊，这个大走廊依然保持着当年的风貌，与二百五十年前设计时一样；还可以一连几小时坐在阴凉的地方眺望外面的平台，欣赏这一切，真是一番美学教育。
这个平台是这所房子设计中最完美的杰作；它坐落在巨石的壁垒上，俯瞰着湖水。因此走廊通往湖边的台阶非常陡峭，好像悬在湖面上，凭栏俯视仿佛可以把块卵石垂直投入脚下第一个湖泊里。平台由两排柱廊环抱，在亭子外，欧椴树林一直伸到林木繁茂的山坡上。平台有一部分铺了地面，另一部分辟为花坛和用矮小的黄杨拼成的阿拉伯图案；稍高些的黄杨长成密密的树篱，围成一个很宽的椭圆形，中间还插进一些壁龛，并且散置着一些雕像，椭圆形的中央喷出一股泉水，它耸立在这片壮观的园地上；像这样的喷泉装置可能在意大利南部城市的广场上找到；而这座喷泉装置是一个世纪以前由塞巴斯蒂安的祖先发现的，发现后就买下来运进来，它便在异域的、然而适宜的气候中重新竖立起来了。
塞巴斯蒂安让我把喷泉画下来。对于一个业余画家来说，画下这个喷泉是一个雄心勃勃之举——一个椭圆形的水池，水池中央是经过斧凿的岩石岛，岛上布置有整齐的石雕热带植物以及英国野生蕨类植物的逼真的叶子；十几道溪流在岩石间流过，仿如泉水，珍奇的石雕热带动物在泉水旁边奔逐嬉戏，有骆驼，长颈鹿，还有张牙舞爪的狮子等等，全都在喷水。岩石堆上，人形山头的顶部，矗立着一个红沙岩的埃及方尖塔——这件东西远非我的能力所能画好的，但是靠了某种很奇怪的运气，我竟把它画了出来，并且以审慎的精炼和漂亮的手法产生了一种很不错的皮拉内西的效果。“我把这张画送给你母亲好吗？”我问。
Richard opened the door
Richard opened the door, and smiled pleasantly at Margaret standing on the threshold with an expression of demure defiance in her face. Did Mr. Shackford want anything more in the way of pans and pails for his plaster? No, Mr. Shackford had everything he required of the kind. But would not Miss Margaret walk in? Yes, she would step in for a moment, but with a good deal of indifference, though, giving an air of chance to her settled determination to examine that room from top to bottom.
Richard showed her his drawings and casts, and enlightened her on all the simple mysteries of the craft. Margaret, of whom he was a trifle afraid at first, amused him with her candor and sedateness, seeming now a mere child, and now an elderly person gravely inspecting matters. The frankness and simplicity were hers by nature, and the oldish ways--notably her self-possession, so quick to assert itself after an instant's forgetfulness--came perhaps of losing her mother in early childhood, and the premature duties which that misfortune entailed. She amused him, for she was only fourteen; but she impressed him also, for she was Mr. Slocum's daughter. Yet it was not her lightness, but her gravity, that made Richard smile to himself.
"I am not interrupting you?" she asked presently.
"Not in the least," said Richard. "I am waiting for these molds to harden. I cannot do anything until then."
"Papa says you are very clever," remarked Margaret, turning her wide black eyes full upon him. _"Are_ you?"
"Far from it," replied Richard, laughing to veil his confusion, "but I am glad your father thinks so."
"You should not be glad to have him think so," returned Margaret reprovingly, "if you are not clever. I suppose you are, though. Tell the truth, now."
"It is not fair to force a fellow into praising himself."
"You are trying to creep out!"
"Well, then, there are many cleverer persons than I in the world, and a few not so clever."
"That won't do," said Margaret positively.
"I don't understand what you mean by cleverness, Miss Margaret. There are a great many kinds and degrees. I can make fairly honest patterns for the men to work by; but I am not an artist, if you mean that."
"You are not an artist?"
"No; an artist creates, and I only copy, and that in a small way. Any one can learn to prepare casts; but to create a bust or a statue--that is to say, a fine one--a man must have genius."
"You have no genius?"
"Not a grain."
"I am sorry to hear that," said Margaret, with a disappointed look. "But perhaps it will come," she added encouragingly. "I have read that nearly all great artists and poets are almost always modest. They know better than anybody else how far they fall short of what they intend, and so they don't put on airs. You don't, either. I like that in you. May be you have genius without knowing it, Mr. Shackford."
"It is quite without knowing it, I assure you!" protested Richard, with suppressed merriment. "What an odd girl!" he thought. "She is actually talking to me like a mother!"
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
“That old tree just playing possum
“That old tree just playing possum.”
I pull a pad out of my pocketbook where I keep a list of what needs to be tended to, not for Miss Celia, but my own groceries, Christmas presents, things for my kids. Benny’s asthma has gotten a little better but Leroy came home last night smelling like Old Crow again. He pushed me hard and I bumped my thigh on the kitchen table. He comes home like that tonight, I’ll fix him a knuckle sandwich for supper.
I sigh. Seventy-two more hours and I’m a free woman. Maybe fired, maybe dead after Leroy finds out, but free.
I try to concentrate on the week. Tomorrow’s heavy cooking and I’ve got the church supper Saturday night and the service on Sunday. When am I going to clean my own house? Wash my own kids’ clothes? My oldest girl, Sugar, is sixteen and pretty good about keeping things neat, but I like to help her out on the weekends the way my mama never helped me. And Aibileen. She called me again last night, asked if I’d help her and Miss Skeeter with the stories. I love Aibileen, I do. But I think she’s making a king-sized mistake trusting a white lady. And I told her, too. She’s risking her job, her safety. Not to mention why anyone would want to help a friend of Miss Hilly’s.
Lord, I better get on with my work.
I pineapple the ham and get it in the oven. Then I dust the shelves in the hunting room, vacuum the bear while he stares at me like I’m a snack. “Just you and me today,” I tell him. As usual he doesn’t say much. I get my rag and my oil soap, work my way up the staircase, polishing each spoke on the banister as I go. When I make it to the top, I head into bedroom number one.
I clean upstairs for about an hour. It’s chilly up here, no bodies to warm it up. I work my arm back and forth, back and forth across everything wood. Between the second and third bedrooms, I go downstairs to Miss Celia’s room before she comes back.
I get that eerie prickle, of being in a house so empty. Where’d she go? After working here all this time and her only leaving three times and always telling me when and where and why she’s leaving, like I care anyway, now she’s gone like the wind. I ought to be happy. I ought to be glad that fool’s out of my hair. But being here by myself, I feel like an intruder. I look down at the little pink rug that covers the bloodstain by the bathroom. Today I was going to take another crack at it. A chill blows through the room, like a ghost passing by. I shiver.
Maybe I won’t work on that bloodstain today.
On the bed the covers, as usual, have been thrown off. The sheets are twisted and turned around the wrong way. It always looks like a wrestling match has gone on in here. I stop myself from wondering. You start to wonder about people in the bedroom, before you know it you’re all wrapped up in their business.
I strip off one of the pillowcases. Miss Celia’s mascara smudged little charcoal butterflies all over it. The clothes on the floor I stuff into the pillowcase to make it easier to carry. I pick up Mister Johnny’s folded pants off the yellow ottoman.
“Now how’m I sposed to know if these is clean or dirty?” I stick them in the sack anyway. My motto on housekeeping: when in doubt, wash it out.
I pull a pad out of my pocketbook where I keep a list of what needs to be tended to, not for Miss Celia, but my own groceries, Christmas presents, things for my kids. Benny’s asthma has gotten a little better but Leroy came home last night smelling like Old Crow again. He pushed me hard and I bumped my thigh on the kitchen table. He comes home like that tonight, I’ll fix him a knuckle sandwich for supper.
I sigh. Seventy-two more hours and I’m a free woman. Maybe fired, maybe dead after Leroy finds out, but free.
I try to concentrate on the week. Tomorrow’s heavy cooking and I’ve got the church supper Saturday night and the service on Sunday. When am I going to clean my own house? Wash my own kids’ clothes? My oldest girl, Sugar, is sixteen and pretty good about keeping things neat, but I like to help her out on the weekends the way my mama never helped me. And Aibileen. She called me again last night, asked if I’d help her and Miss Skeeter with the stories. I love Aibileen, I do. But I think she’s making a king-sized mistake trusting a white lady. And I told her, too. She’s risking her job, her safety. Not to mention why anyone would want to help a friend of Miss Hilly’s.
Lord, I better get on with my work.
I pineapple the ham and get it in the oven. Then I dust the shelves in the hunting room, vacuum the bear while he stares at me like I’m a snack. “Just you and me today,” I tell him. As usual he doesn’t say much. I get my rag and my oil soap, work my way up the staircase, polishing each spoke on the banister as I go. When I make it to the top, I head into bedroom number one.
I clean upstairs for about an hour. It’s chilly up here, no bodies to warm it up. I work my arm back and forth, back and forth across everything wood. Between the second and third bedrooms, I go downstairs to Miss Celia’s room before she comes back.
I get that eerie prickle, of being in a house so empty. Where’d she go? After working here all this time and her only leaving three times and always telling me when and where and why she’s leaving, like I care anyway, now she’s gone like the wind. I ought to be happy. I ought to be glad that fool’s out of my hair. But being here by myself, I feel like an intruder. I look down at the little pink rug that covers the bloodstain by the bathroom. Today I was going to take another crack at it. A chill blows through the room, like a ghost passing by. I shiver.
Maybe I won’t work on that bloodstain today.
On the bed the covers, as usual, have been thrown off. The sheets are twisted and turned around the wrong way. It always looks like a wrestling match has gone on in here. I stop myself from wondering. You start to wonder about people in the bedroom, before you know it you’re all wrapped up in their business.
I strip off one of the pillowcases. Miss Celia’s mascara smudged little charcoal butterflies all over it. The clothes on the floor I stuff into the pillowcase to make it easier to carry. I pick up Mister Johnny’s folded pants off the yellow ottoman.
“Now how’m I sposed to know if these is clean or dirty?” I stick them in the sack anyway. My motto on housekeeping: when in doubt, wash it out.
Blank faces
Blank faces. Puzzled faces. Sad faces. A groan from just over his shoulder as the pain hit Nora. Looking at the boys, with his wife literally breathing down his neck, Luther Krank knew that this was the pivotal moment. Snap here, and the floodgates would open. Buy a tree, then decorate it, then realize that no tree looks complete without a pile of presents stuffed under it,fake uggs boots.
Hang tough, old boy, Luther urged himself, just as his wife whispered, "Oh dear."
"Hush," he hissed from the corner of his mouth.
The boys stared up at Mr. Krank, as if he'd just taken the last coins from their pockets.
"Sorry we had to go up on the price," Randy said sadly.
"We're making less per tree than last year, Mr. Scanlon added helpfully.
"It's not the price, boys," Luther said with another bogus grin. "We're not doing Christmas this year. Gonna be out of town. No need for a tree,SHIPPING INFO.. Thanks anyway."
The boys began looking at their feet, as wounded children will do, and Mr. Scanlon appeared to be heartbroken. Nora offered another pitiful groan, and Luther, near panic, had a brilliant thought. "Don't you boys go out West each year, for a big camporee of some sort? New Mexico, in August, I seem to recall from a flyer."
They were caught off guard but all three nodded slowly.
"Good, here's the deal. I'll pass on the tree, but you guys come back in the summer and I'll give you a hundred bucks for your trip."
Randy Bogan managed to say "Thanks, but only because he felt obligated. They suddenly wanted to leave.
Luther slowly closed the door on them, then waited. They stood there on the front steps for a moment or two, then retreated down the drive, glancing over their shoulders,ladies rolex presidents.
When they reached the truck another adult, in uniform, was told the bizarre news. Others heard it, and before long activity around the trailer came to a halt as the
Scouts and their leaders grouped at the end of the Kranks' driveway and stared at the Krank house as if aliens were on the roof.
Luther crouched low and peeked around the open curtains of the living room. "What are they doing?" Nora whispered behind him, crouching too.
"Just staring, I guess."
"Maybe we should've bought one."
"No."
"Don't have to put it up, you know."
"Quiet."
"Just keep it in the backyard."
"Stop it, Nora. Why are you whispering? This is our house."
"Same reason you're hiding behind the curtains."
He stood straight and closed the curtains. The Scouts moved on, their trailer inching down the street as the trees on Hemlock Street were delivered.
Luther built a fire and settled into his recliner for some reading, tax stuff. He was alone because Nora was pouting, a short spell that would be over by morning.
If he'd faced down the Boy Scouts, then who should he fear? More encounters were coming, no doubt, and that was one of the very reasons Luther disliked Christmas. Everybody selling something, raising money, looking for a tip, a bonus, something, something, something,jeremy scott wings. He grew indignant again and felt fine.
He eased from the house an hour later. On the sidewalk that bordered Hemlock, he shuffled along, going nowhere. The air was cool and light. After a few steps he stopped by the Beckers' mailbox and looked into the front window of the living room, not far away. They were decorating their tree, and he could almost hear the bickering. Ned Becker was balancing himself on the top rung of a small ladder and stringing lights, while Jude Becker stood back a step and carped directions. Jude's mother, an ageless wonder even more terrifying than Jude herself, was also in on the fray. She was pointing directions to poor Ned, and her directions were in sharp conflict to those of Jude. String them here, string them there. That branch, no that other branch. Can't you see that gap there? What on earth are you looking at? Meanwhile, Rocky Becker, their twenty-year-old dropout, was sitting on the sofa with a can of something, laughing at them and offering advice that was apparently being ignored. He was the only one laughing, though.
Hang tough, old boy, Luther urged himself, just as his wife whispered, "Oh dear."
"Hush," he hissed from the corner of his mouth.
The boys stared up at Mr. Krank, as if he'd just taken the last coins from their pockets.
"Sorry we had to go up on the price," Randy said sadly.
"We're making less per tree than last year, Mr. Scanlon added helpfully.
"It's not the price, boys," Luther said with another bogus grin. "We're not doing Christmas this year. Gonna be out of town. No need for a tree,SHIPPING INFO.. Thanks anyway."
The boys began looking at their feet, as wounded children will do, and Mr. Scanlon appeared to be heartbroken. Nora offered another pitiful groan, and Luther, near panic, had a brilliant thought. "Don't you boys go out West each year, for a big camporee of some sort? New Mexico, in August, I seem to recall from a flyer."
They were caught off guard but all three nodded slowly.
"Good, here's the deal. I'll pass on the tree, but you guys come back in the summer and I'll give you a hundred bucks for your trip."
Randy Bogan managed to say "Thanks, but only because he felt obligated. They suddenly wanted to leave.
Luther slowly closed the door on them, then waited. They stood there on the front steps for a moment or two, then retreated down the drive, glancing over their shoulders,ladies rolex presidents.
When they reached the truck another adult, in uniform, was told the bizarre news. Others heard it, and before long activity around the trailer came to a halt as the
Scouts and their leaders grouped at the end of the Kranks' driveway and stared at the Krank house as if aliens were on the roof.
Luther crouched low and peeked around the open curtains of the living room. "What are they doing?" Nora whispered behind him, crouching too.
"Just staring, I guess."
"Maybe we should've bought one."
"No."
"Don't have to put it up, you know."
"Quiet."
"Just keep it in the backyard."
"Stop it, Nora. Why are you whispering? This is our house."
"Same reason you're hiding behind the curtains."
He stood straight and closed the curtains. The Scouts moved on, their trailer inching down the street as the trees on Hemlock Street were delivered.
Luther built a fire and settled into his recliner for some reading, tax stuff. He was alone because Nora was pouting, a short spell that would be over by morning.
If he'd faced down the Boy Scouts, then who should he fear? More encounters were coming, no doubt, and that was one of the very reasons Luther disliked Christmas. Everybody selling something, raising money, looking for a tip, a bonus, something, something, something,jeremy scott wings. He grew indignant again and felt fine.
He eased from the house an hour later. On the sidewalk that bordered Hemlock, he shuffled along, going nowhere. The air was cool and light. After a few steps he stopped by the Beckers' mailbox and looked into the front window of the living room, not far away. They were decorating their tree, and he could almost hear the bickering. Ned Becker was balancing himself on the top rung of a small ladder and stringing lights, while Jude Becker stood back a step and carped directions. Jude's mother, an ageless wonder even more terrifying than Jude herself, was also in on the fray. She was pointing directions to poor Ned, and her directions were in sharp conflict to those of Jude. String them here, string them there. That branch, no that other branch. Can't you see that gap there? What on earth are you looking at? Meanwhile, Rocky Becker, their twenty-year-old dropout, was sitting on the sofa with a can of something, laughing at them and offering advice that was apparently being ignored. He was the only one laughing, though.
A FEW HOURS after talking to Missus Stein over the phone
A FEW HOURS after talking to Missus Stein over the phone, I tiptoe back to check on Mother one last time. Daddy’s already asleep beside her. Mother has a glass of milk on the table. She’s propped up on her pillows but her eyes are closed. She opens them as I’m peeking in.
“Can I get you anything, Mama?”
“I’m only resting because Doctor Neal told me to. Where are you going, Eugenia? It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be back in a little while. I’m just going for a drive.” I give her a kiss, hoping she doesn’t ask any more questions. When I close the door, she’s already fallen asleep.
I drive fast through town. I dread telling Aibileen about the new deadline. The old truck rattles and bangs in the potholes. It’s in fast decline after another hard cotton season. My head practically hits the ceiling because someone’s retied the seat springs too tight. I have to drive with the window down, my arm hanging out so the door won’t rattle. The front window has a new smash in it the shape of a sunset.
I pull up to a light on State Street across from the paper company. When I look over, there’s Elizabeth and Mae Mobley and Raleigh all crammed in the front seat of their white Corvair, headed home from supper somewhere, I guess. I freeze, not daring to look over again, afraid she’ll see me and ask what I’m doing in the truck. I let them drive ahead, watching their tail-lights, fighting a hotness rising in my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to Elizabeth.
After the toilet incident, Elizabeth and I struggled to stay friends. We still talked on the phone occasionally. But she stopped saying more than a hello and a few empty sentences to me at League meetings, because Hilly would see her. The last time I stopped by Elizabeth’s house was a month ago.
“I can’t believe how big Mae Mobley’s gotten,” I’d said. Mae Mobley had smiled shyly, hid behind her mother’s leg. She was taller but still soft with baby fat.
“Growing like a weed,” Elizabeth said, looking out the window, and I thought, what an odd thing to compare your child to,ladies rolex presidents. A weed.
Elizabeth was still in her bathrobe, hair rollers in, already tiny again after the pregnancy. Her smile stayed tight. She kept looking at her watch, touching her curlers every few seconds. We stood around the kitchen.
“Want to go to the club for lunch?” I asked. Aibileen swung through the kitchen door then. In the dining room, I caught a glimpse of silver and Battenburg lace,jeremy scott adidas 2012.
“I can’t and I hate to rush you out but . . . Mama’s meeting me at the Jewel Taylor Shoppe.” She shot her eyes out the front window again. “You know how Mama hates to wait.” Her smile grew exponentially.
“Oh, I’m sorry, don’t let me keep you.” I patted her shoulder and headed for the door. And then it hit me. How could I be so dumb? It’s Wednesday, twelve o’clock. My old bridge club.
I backed the Cadillac down her drive,ladies rolex datejusts, sorry that I’d embarrassed her so,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/. When I turned, I saw her face stretched up to the window, watching me leave. And that’s when I realized: she wasn’t embarrassed that she’d made me feel bad. Elizabeth Leefolt was embarrassed to be seen with me.
“Can I get you anything, Mama?”
“I’m only resting because Doctor Neal told me to. Where are you going, Eugenia? It’s nearly seven o’clock.”
“I’ll be back in a little while. I’m just going for a drive.” I give her a kiss, hoping she doesn’t ask any more questions. When I close the door, she’s already fallen asleep.
I drive fast through town. I dread telling Aibileen about the new deadline. The old truck rattles and bangs in the potholes. It’s in fast decline after another hard cotton season. My head practically hits the ceiling because someone’s retied the seat springs too tight. I have to drive with the window down, my arm hanging out so the door won’t rattle. The front window has a new smash in it the shape of a sunset.
I pull up to a light on State Street across from the paper company. When I look over, there’s Elizabeth and Mae Mobley and Raleigh all crammed in the front seat of their white Corvair, headed home from supper somewhere, I guess. I freeze, not daring to look over again, afraid she’ll see me and ask what I’m doing in the truck. I let them drive ahead, watching their tail-lights, fighting a hotness rising in my throat. It’s been a long time since I’ve talked to Elizabeth.
After the toilet incident, Elizabeth and I struggled to stay friends. We still talked on the phone occasionally. But she stopped saying more than a hello and a few empty sentences to me at League meetings, because Hilly would see her. The last time I stopped by Elizabeth’s house was a month ago.
“I can’t believe how big Mae Mobley’s gotten,” I’d said. Mae Mobley had smiled shyly, hid behind her mother’s leg. She was taller but still soft with baby fat.
“Growing like a weed,” Elizabeth said, looking out the window, and I thought, what an odd thing to compare your child to,ladies rolex presidents. A weed.
Elizabeth was still in her bathrobe, hair rollers in, already tiny again after the pregnancy. Her smile stayed tight. She kept looking at her watch, touching her curlers every few seconds. We stood around the kitchen.
“Want to go to the club for lunch?” I asked. Aibileen swung through the kitchen door then. In the dining room, I caught a glimpse of silver and Battenburg lace,jeremy scott adidas 2012.
“I can’t and I hate to rush you out but . . . Mama’s meeting me at the Jewel Taylor Shoppe.” She shot her eyes out the front window again. “You know how Mama hates to wait.” Her smile grew exponentially.
“Oh, I’m sorry, don’t let me keep you.” I patted her shoulder and headed for the door. And then it hit me. How could I be so dumb? It’s Wednesday, twelve o’clock. My old bridge club.
I backed the Cadillac down her drive,ladies rolex datejusts, sorry that I’d embarrassed her so,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/. When I turned, I saw her face stretched up to the window, watching me leave. And that’s when I realized: she wasn’t embarrassed that she’d made me feel bad. Elizabeth Leefolt was embarrassed to be seen with me.
Melanie l'Heuremaudit was driven away down the rue La Fayette in a noisy auto-taxi
Melanie l'Heuremaudit was driven away down the rue La Fayette in a noisy auto-taxi. She sat in the exact center of the seat, while behind her the three massive arcades and seven allegorical statues of the Gare slowly receded into a lowering, pre-autumn sky. Her eyes were dead,imitation rolex watches, her nose French: the strength there and about the chin and lips made her resemble the classical rendering of Liberty. In all, the face was quite beautiful except for the eyes, which were the color of freezing rain. Melanie was fifteen.
Had fled from school in Belgium as soon as she received the letter from her mother, with 1500 francs and the announcement that her support would continue, though all Papa's possessions had been attached by the court. The mother had gone off to tour Austria-Hungary. She did not expect to see Melanie in the foreseeable future,SHIPPING INFO..
Melanie's head ached, but she didn't care. Or did but not where she was, here present as a face and a ballerina's figure on the bouncing back seat of a taxi. The driver's neck was soft, white: wisps of white hair straggled from under the blue stocking cap. On reaching the intersection with the Boulevard Haussmann, the car turned right up rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. To her left rose the dome of the Opera, and tiny Apollo, with his golden lyre . . .
"Papa!" she screamed.
The driver winced, tapped the brake reflexively. "I am not your father," he muttered.
Up into the heights of Montmartre, aimed for the most diseased part of the sky. Would it rain? The clouds hung like leprous tissue. Under that light the color of her hair reduced to neutral browns, buffs. Let down the hair reached halfway over her buttocks. But she wore it high with two large curls covering her ears, tickling the sides of her neck.
Papa had a strong bald skull and a brave mustache. Evenings she would come softly into the room, the mysterious place walled in silk where he and her mother slept. And while Madeleine combed the hair of Maman in the other room, Melanie lay on the wide bed beside him, while he touched her in many places, and she squirmed and fought not to make a sound. It was their game. One night there had been heat lightning outside, and a small night bird had lit on the windowsill and watched them. How long ago it seemed! Late summer, like today.
This had been at Serre Chaude, their estate in Normandy, once the ancestral home of a family whose blood had long since turned to a pale ichor and vaporized away into the frosty skies over Amiens. The house, which dated from the reign of Henri IV, was large but unimpressive,rolex submariner replica watches, like most architecture of the period. She had always wanted to slide down the great mansard roof: begin at the top and skid down the first gentle slope. Her skirt would fly above her hips, her black-stockinged legs would writhe matte against a wilderness of chimneys, under the Norman sunlight. High over the elms and the hidden carp pods,jeremy scott adidas, up where Maman could only be a tiny blotch under a parasol, gazing at her. She imagined the sensation often: the feeling of roof-tiles rapidly sliding beneath the hard curve of her rump, the wind trapped under her blouse teasing the new breasts. And then the break: where the lower, steeper slope of the roof began, the point of no return, where the friction against her body would lessen and she would accelerate, flip over to twist the skirt - perhaps rip it off, be done with it, see it flutter away, like a dark kite! - to let the dovetailed tiles tense her nipple-points to an angry red, see a pigeon clinging to the eaves just before flight, taste the long hair caught against her teeth and tongue, cry out . . .
Had fled from school in Belgium as soon as she received the letter from her mother, with 1500 francs and the announcement that her support would continue, though all Papa's possessions had been attached by the court. The mother had gone off to tour Austria-Hungary. She did not expect to see Melanie in the foreseeable future,SHIPPING INFO..
Melanie's head ached, but she didn't care. Or did but not where she was, here present as a face and a ballerina's figure on the bouncing back seat of a taxi. The driver's neck was soft, white: wisps of white hair straggled from under the blue stocking cap. On reaching the intersection with the Boulevard Haussmann, the car turned right up rue de la Chaussee d'Antin. To her left rose the dome of the Opera, and tiny Apollo, with his golden lyre . . .
"Papa!" she screamed.
The driver winced, tapped the brake reflexively. "I am not your father," he muttered.
Up into the heights of Montmartre, aimed for the most diseased part of the sky. Would it rain? The clouds hung like leprous tissue. Under that light the color of her hair reduced to neutral browns, buffs. Let down the hair reached halfway over her buttocks. But she wore it high with two large curls covering her ears, tickling the sides of her neck.
Papa had a strong bald skull and a brave mustache. Evenings she would come softly into the room, the mysterious place walled in silk where he and her mother slept. And while Madeleine combed the hair of Maman in the other room, Melanie lay on the wide bed beside him, while he touched her in many places, and she squirmed and fought not to make a sound. It was their game. One night there had been heat lightning outside, and a small night bird had lit on the windowsill and watched them. How long ago it seemed! Late summer, like today.
This had been at Serre Chaude, their estate in Normandy, once the ancestral home of a family whose blood had long since turned to a pale ichor and vaporized away into the frosty skies over Amiens. The house, which dated from the reign of Henri IV, was large but unimpressive,rolex submariner replica watches, like most architecture of the period. She had always wanted to slide down the great mansard roof: begin at the top and skid down the first gentle slope. Her skirt would fly above her hips, her black-stockinged legs would writhe matte against a wilderness of chimneys, under the Norman sunlight. High over the elms and the hidden carp pods,jeremy scott adidas, up where Maman could only be a tiny blotch under a parasol, gazing at her. She imagined the sensation often: the feeling of roof-tiles rapidly sliding beneath the hard curve of her rump, the wind trapped under her blouse teasing the new breasts. And then the break: where the lower, steeper slope of the roof began, the point of no return, where the friction against her body would lessen and she would accelerate, flip over to twist the skirt - perhaps rip it off, be done with it, see it flutter away, like a dark kite! - to let the dovetailed tiles tense her nipple-points to an angry red, see a pigeon clinging to the eaves just before flight, taste the long hair caught against her teeth and tongue, cry out . . .
my daughter
"Ah, my daughter, what tidings do you bring,mens rolex datejust?"
"He has come!" declared the girl, proclaiming with unaffected gladness what was at that moment a great event in her life.
"He!"
The chilly palm which the elder lady had extended, without rising, for the customary greeting, was not so chilly as the tone with which she uttered this offending pronoun. Helene, suddenly remembering with deep self-reproach the grief that her mother must feel in the loss of her old friend,fake delaine ugg boots, took the cold fingers in both her warm white hands, and whispered tenderly:
"She has gone!"
Madame DeBerczy was not overcome by this intelligence. She had indeed learned the sad truth from Tredway, who had been despatched to "Bellevue" by the Commodore immediately upon the death of his wife. Consequently, at this moment, her heart did not suffer so much as her sense of propriety--which her enemies asserted was a more vital organ.
"I trust," she said, not unkindly, but with a sort of majestic displeasure, "that you do not mention these facts to me in what you consider the order of their importance."
The young girl was chilled. She moved away to one of the spindle-legged chairs near a window, and played absently with the knotted fringes of the old-fashioned dimity curtain. "I mention them in the order of their occurrence," she said gently. "Dear Mrs. Macleod could scarcely close her eyes on earth until they rested upon her son. He brought me over in his boat this morning, and is waiting below to see you. Do you feel able to go down?"
"I hope I shall always be able to respond to social requirements, and the son of my old friend must not be slighted. Were you about to suggest that I receive him in my bedchamber?"
Helene, who had risen with charming alertness at the first intimation of her mother's intentions, now confronted that frigid dame with the subdued radiance of her glance. "Ah, dear mother!" she murmured deprecatingly. Daughterly submissiveness, tender consideration for an invalid's querulous moods, gentle insistence upon her own right to be happy in spite of them, were all radiated from the softly spoken words. Rigid propriety may have slain its thousands, perhaps its tens of thousands,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/, but the elder lady foresaw with terrible clearness that it would never find a victim in this blithe girl, who refrained from dancing down the stairs before her simply because her happiness was accustomed to find expression in her looks, not in her actions. However, motherly allegiance to duty might curb if it could not altogether control. "Is it possible that I heard you humming a tune as you came through the hall?" she inquired.
"No,jeremy scott shop, no; it is impossible! I hummed it so low that you certainly could not have heard it!"
Dignified rebuke was out of the question, as they had reached the foot of the stairway. In another moment Edward Macleod was bending profoundly over the hand of his hostess. The aristocratic, little old lady, with her delicate faded face, always seemed to him like some rare piece of porcelain or other fragile, highly-finished object. He led her to the easiest chair, and drew his own close beside her, only interrupting the absorbed attention which he gave to her remarks by soft inquiries regarding her health, or compliments upon the way in which her not very vigorous constitution had withstood the severity of the Canadian winter.
Monday, November 19, 2012
There was a knock on the door and two waiters wheeled in a cart covered with food and silver service
There was a knock on the door and two waiters wheeled in a cart covered with food and silver service coffeepots. They took a portable table from the bottom of the cart and set it up. Then Johnny dismissed them,rolex submariner replica watches.
They sat at the table and ate the hot sandwiches Lucy had ordered and drank the coffee. Johnny leaned back and lit up a cigarette. "So you save lives. How come you became an abortionist?"
Lucy spoke up for the first time. "He wanted to help girls in trouble, girls who might commit suicide or do something dangerous to get rid of the baby."
Jules smiled at her and sighed. "It's not that simple. I became a surgeon finally. I've got the good hands, as ballplayers say. But I was so good I scared myself silly,Home Page. I'd open up some poor bastard's belly and know he was going to die. I'd operate and know that the cancer or tumor would come back but I'd send them off home with a smile and a lot of bullshit. Some poor broad comes in and I slice off one tit. A year later she's back and I slice off the other tit. A year after that, I scoop out her insides like you scoop the seeds out of a cantaloupe. After all that she dies anyway. Meanwhile husbands keep calling up and asking, 'What do the tests show? What do the tests show?'
"So I hired an extra secretary to take all those calls. I saw the patient only when she was fully prepared for examination, tests or operation. I spent the minimum possible time with the victim because I was, after all, a busy man. And then finally I'd let the husband talk to me for two minutes. 'It's terminal,' I'd say. And they could never hear that last word. They understood what it meant but they never heard it. I thought at first that unconsciously I was dropping my voice on the last word, so I consciously said it louder. But still they never heard it. One guy even said, 'What the hell do you mean, it's germinal?' " Jules started to laugh. "Germinal, terminal, what the hell. I started to do abortions. Nice and easy, everybody happy, like washing the dishes and leaving a clean sink. That was my class. I loved it, I loved being an abortionist. I don't believe that a two-month fetus is a human being so no problems there. I was helping young girls and married women who were in trouble, I was making good money. I was out of the front tines,jeremy scott adidas 2012. When I got caught I felt like a deserter that had been hauled in. But I was lucky, a friend pulled some strings and got pie off but now the big hospitals won't let me operate. So here I am. Giving good advice again which is being ignored just like in the old days."
"I'm not ignoring it," Johnny Fontane said. "I'm thinking it over,cheap jeremy scott adidas."
Lucy finally changed the subject. "What are you doing in Vegas, Johnny? Relaxing from your duties as big-time Hollywood wheel or working?"
Johnny shook his head. "Mike Corleone wants to see me and have a talk. He's flying in tonight with Tom Hagen. Tom said they'll be seeing you, Lucy. You know what it's all about?"
Lucy shook her head. "We're all having dinner tether tomorrow night. Freddie too. I think it might have something to do with the hotel. The casino has been dropping money lately, which shouldn't be. The Don might want Mike to check it out."
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
O Thousand Isles
"O Thousand Isles! O Thousand Isles!"
It seemed to King that a poem might be constructed more in accordance with the facts and with the scientific spirit of the age. Something like this:
"O Sixteen Hundred Ninety-two Isles!
O Islands 1692!
Where the fisher spreads his wiles,
And the muskallonge goes through!
Forever the cottager gilds the same
With nightly pyrotechnic flame;
And it's O the Isles!
The 1692,fake uggs!"
Aside from the pyrotechnics, the chief occupations of this place are boating and fishing,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/. Boats abound--row-boats, sail-boats, and steam-launches for excursion parties. The river consequently presents an animated appearance in the season, and the prettiest effects are produced by the white sails dipping about among the green islands. The favorite boat is a canoe with a small sail stepped forward, which is steered without centre-board or rudder, merely by a change of position in the boat of the man who holds the sheet. While the fishermen are here, it would seem that the long, snaky pickerel is the chief game pursued and caught. But this is not the case when the fishermen return home, for then it appears that they have been dealing mainly with muskallonge, and with bass by the way. No other part of the country originates so many excellent fish stories as the Sixteen Hundred and Ninety-two Islands, and King had heard so many of them that he suspected there must be fish in these waters. That afternoon, when they returned from Gananoque he accosted an old fisherman who sat in his boat at the wharf awaiting a customer.
"I suppose there is fishing here in the season?"
The man glanced up, but deigned no reply to such impertinence.
"Could you take us where we would be likely to get any muskallonge?"
"Likely?" asked the man. "What do you suppose I am here for,Link?"
"I beg your pardon. I'm a stranger here. I'd like to try my hand at a muskallonge. About how do they run here as to size?"
"Well," said the fisherman, relenting a little, "that depends upon who takes you out. If you want a little sport, I can take you to it. They are running pretty well this season, or were a week ago."
"Is it too late?"
"Well, they are scarcer than they were, unless you know where to go. I call forty pounds light for a muskallonge; fifty to seventy is about my figure. If you ain't used to this kind of fishing, and go with me, you'd better tie yourself in the boat. They are a powerful fish. You see that little island yonder? A muskallonge dragged me in this boat four times round that island one day, and just as I thought I was tiring him out he jumped clean over the island, and I had to cut the line."
King thought he had heard something like this before, and he engaged the man for the next day. That evening was the last of the grand illuminations for the season, and our party went out in the Crossman steam-launch to see it. Although some of the cottages were vacated,chanel 2.55 bags, and the display was not so extensive as in August, it was still marvelously beautiful, and the night voyage around the illuminated islands was something long to be remembered.
It seemed to King that a poem might be constructed more in accordance with the facts and with the scientific spirit of the age. Something like this:
"O Sixteen Hundred Ninety-two Isles!
O Islands 1692!
Where the fisher spreads his wiles,
And the muskallonge goes through!
Forever the cottager gilds the same
With nightly pyrotechnic flame;
And it's O the Isles!
The 1692,fake uggs!"
Aside from the pyrotechnics, the chief occupations of this place are boating and fishing,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/. Boats abound--row-boats, sail-boats, and steam-launches for excursion parties. The river consequently presents an animated appearance in the season, and the prettiest effects are produced by the white sails dipping about among the green islands. The favorite boat is a canoe with a small sail stepped forward, which is steered without centre-board or rudder, merely by a change of position in the boat of the man who holds the sheet. While the fishermen are here, it would seem that the long, snaky pickerel is the chief game pursued and caught. But this is not the case when the fishermen return home, for then it appears that they have been dealing mainly with muskallonge, and with bass by the way. No other part of the country originates so many excellent fish stories as the Sixteen Hundred and Ninety-two Islands, and King had heard so many of them that he suspected there must be fish in these waters. That afternoon, when they returned from Gananoque he accosted an old fisherman who sat in his boat at the wharf awaiting a customer.
"I suppose there is fishing here in the season?"
The man glanced up, but deigned no reply to such impertinence.
"Could you take us where we would be likely to get any muskallonge?"
"Likely?" asked the man. "What do you suppose I am here for,Link?"
"I beg your pardon. I'm a stranger here. I'd like to try my hand at a muskallonge. About how do they run here as to size?"
"Well," said the fisherman, relenting a little, "that depends upon who takes you out. If you want a little sport, I can take you to it. They are running pretty well this season, or were a week ago."
"Is it too late?"
"Well, they are scarcer than they were, unless you know where to go. I call forty pounds light for a muskallonge; fifty to seventy is about my figure. If you ain't used to this kind of fishing, and go with me, you'd better tie yourself in the boat. They are a powerful fish. You see that little island yonder? A muskallonge dragged me in this boat four times round that island one day, and just as I thought I was tiring him out he jumped clean over the island, and I had to cut the line."
King thought he had heard something like this before, and he engaged the man for the next day. That evening was the last of the grand illuminations for the season, and our party went out in the Crossman steam-launch to see it. Although some of the cottages were vacated,chanel 2.55 bags, and the display was not so extensive as in August, it was still marvelously beautiful, and the night voyage around the illuminated islands was something long to be remembered.
Sue's voice broke the stillness How long are we going to stay here
Sue's voice broke the stillness: "How long are we going to stay here, Mardie?"
"I don't know, Sue; I think perhaps as long as they'll let us."
"Will Fardie come and see us?"
"I don't expect him."
"Who'll take care of Jack, Mardie?"
"Your Aunt Louisa."
"She'll scold him awfully, but he never cries; he just says, 'Pooh! what do I care?' Oh, I forgot to pray for that very nicest Shaker gentleman that said he'd let me help him feed the calves! Had n't I better get out of bed and do it? I'd 'specially like to."
"Very well, Sue; and then go to sleep."
Safely in bed again, there was a long pause, and then the eager little voice began,jeremy scott wings, "Who'll take care of Fardie now?"
"He's a big man; he does n't need anybody."
"What if he's sick?"
"We must go back to him, I suppose."
" Tomorrow 's Sunday; what if he needs us tomorrow, Mardie?"
"I don't know, I don't know! Oh, Sue, Sue, don't ask your wretched mother any more questions, for she cannot bear them tonight,jeremy scott adidas 2012. Cuddle up close to her; love her and forgive her and help her to know what's right."
Chapter 2 A Son Of Adam
When Susanna Nelson at seventeen married John Hathaway, she had the usual cogent reasons for so doing, with some rather more unusual ones added thereto. She was alone in the world, and her life with an uncle, her mother's only relative, was an unhappy one. No assistance in the household tasks that she had ever been able to render made her a welcome member of the family or kept her from feeling a burden, and she belonged no more to the little circle at seventeen than she did when she became a part of it at twelve. The hope of being independent and earning her own living had sustained her through the last year; but it was a very timid, self-distrustful, love-starved little heart that John Hathaway stormed and carried by assault. Her girl's life in a country school and her uncle's very rigid and orthodox home had been devoid of emotion or experience,fake uggs boots; still, her mother had early sown seeds in her mind and spirit that even in the most arid soil were certain to flower into beauty when the time for flowering came; and intellectually Susanna was the clever daughter of clever parents. She was very immature, because, after early childhood, her environment had not been favorable to her development. At seventeen she began to dream of a future as bright as the past had been dreary and uneventful. Visions of happiness, of goodness, and of service haunted her, and sometimes, gleaming through the mists of dawning womanhood, the figure, all luminous, of The Man!
When John Hathaway appeared on the horizon, she promptly clothed him in all the beautiful garments of her dreams; they were a grotesque misfit, but when we intimate that women have confused the dream and the reality before, and may even do so again, we make the only possible excuse for poor little Susanna Nelson.
John Hathaway was the very image of the outer world that lay beyond Susanna's village. He was a fairly prosperous, genial, handsome young merchant, who looked upon life as a place furnished by Providence in which to have "a good time." His parents had frequently told him that it was expedient for him to "settle down," and he supposed that he might finally do so, if he should ever find a girl who would tempt him to relinquish his liberty. (The line that divides liberty and license was a little vague to John Hathaway!) It is curious that he should not have chosen for his life-partner some thoughtless, rosy, romping young person, whose highest conception of connubial happiness would have been to drive twenty miles to the seashore on a Sunday, and having partaken of all the season's delicacies, solid and liquid, to come home hilarious by moonlight. That, however, is not the way the little love-imps do their work in the world; or is it possible that they are not imps at all who provoke and stimulate and arrange these strange marriages not imps, but honest, chastening little character-builders? In any event, the moment that John Hathaway first beheld Susanna Nelson was the moment of his surrender; yet the wooing was as incomprehensible as that of a fragile, dainty little hummingbird by a pompous, greedy,fake uggs, big-breasted robin.
"I don't know, Sue; I think perhaps as long as they'll let us."
"Will Fardie come and see us?"
"I don't expect him."
"Who'll take care of Jack, Mardie?"
"Your Aunt Louisa."
"She'll scold him awfully, but he never cries; he just says, 'Pooh! what do I care?' Oh, I forgot to pray for that very nicest Shaker gentleman that said he'd let me help him feed the calves! Had n't I better get out of bed and do it? I'd 'specially like to."
"Very well, Sue; and then go to sleep."
Safely in bed again, there was a long pause, and then the eager little voice began,jeremy scott wings, "Who'll take care of Fardie now?"
"He's a big man; he does n't need anybody."
"What if he's sick?"
"We must go back to him, I suppose."
" Tomorrow 's Sunday; what if he needs us tomorrow, Mardie?"
"I don't know, I don't know! Oh, Sue, Sue, don't ask your wretched mother any more questions, for she cannot bear them tonight,jeremy scott adidas 2012. Cuddle up close to her; love her and forgive her and help her to know what's right."
Chapter 2 A Son Of Adam
When Susanna Nelson at seventeen married John Hathaway, she had the usual cogent reasons for so doing, with some rather more unusual ones added thereto. She was alone in the world, and her life with an uncle, her mother's only relative, was an unhappy one. No assistance in the household tasks that she had ever been able to render made her a welcome member of the family or kept her from feeling a burden, and she belonged no more to the little circle at seventeen than she did when she became a part of it at twelve. The hope of being independent and earning her own living had sustained her through the last year; but it was a very timid, self-distrustful, love-starved little heart that John Hathaway stormed and carried by assault. Her girl's life in a country school and her uncle's very rigid and orthodox home had been devoid of emotion or experience,fake uggs boots; still, her mother had early sown seeds in her mind and spirit that even in the most arid soil were certain to flower into beauty when the time for flowering came; and intellectually Susanna was the clever daughter of clever parents. She was very immature, because, after early childhood, her environment had not been favorable to her development. At seventeen she began to dream of a future as bright as the past had been dreary and uneventful. Visions of happiness, of goodness, and of service haunted her, and sometimes, gleaming through the mists of dawning womanhood, the figure, all luminous, of The Man!
When John Hathaway appeared on the horizon, she promptly clothed him in all the beautiful garments of her dreams; they were a grotesque misfit, but when we intimate that women have confused the dream and the reality before, and may even do so again, we make the only possible excuse for poor little Susanna Nelson.
John Hathaway was the very image of the outer world that lay beyond Susanna's village. He was a fairly prosperous, genial, handsome young merchant, who looked upon life as a place furnished by Providence in which to have "a good time." His parents had frequently told him that it was expedient for him to "settle down," and he supposed that he might finally do so, if he should ever find a girl who would tempt him to relinquish his liberty. (The line that divides liberty and license was a little vague to John Hathaway!) It is curious that he should not have chosen for his life-partner some thoughtless, rosy, romping young person, whose highest conception of connubial happiness would have been to drive twenty miles to the seashore on a Sunday, and having partaken of all the season's delicacies, solid and liquid, to come home hilarious by moonlight. That, however, is not the way the little love-imps do their work in the world; or is it possible that they are not imps at all who provoke and stimulate and arrange these strange marriages not imps, but honest, chastening little character-builders? In any event, the moment that John Hathaway first beheld Susanna Nelson was the moment of his surrender; yet the wooing was as incomprehensible as that of a fragile, dainty little hummingbird by a pompous, greedy,fake uggs, big-breasted robin.
Tuesday, November 6, 2012
Over in the orchard
Over in the orchard,Link, of a thousand acres or so, were many more Orientals, and hundreds of wild doves. These Chinese were all of the lower coolie orders, and primitive, not to say drastic in their medical ideas. One evening the Captain heard a fine caterwauling and drum beating over in the quarters, and sallied forth to investigate. In one of the huts he found four men sitting on the outspread legs and arms of a fifth. The latter had been stripped stark naked. A sixth was engaged in placing live coals on the patient's belly, while assorted assistants furnished appropriate music and lamentation. The Captain put a stop to the proceedings and bundled the victim to a hospital where he promptly died,cheap jeremy scott adidas wings. It was considered among Chinese circles that the Captain had killed him by ill-timed interference!
Everywhere we went, and wherever a small clump of trees or even large brush offered space, hung the carcasses of coyotes, wildcats,fake uggs boots, and lynx. Some were quite new, while others had completely mummified in the dry air of these interior plains. These were the trophies of the professional "varmint killer," a man hired by the month. Of course it would be only too easy for such an official to loaf on his job, so this one had adopted the unique method of proving his activity. Everywhere the Captain rode he could see that his man had been busy.
All this time we had been working steadily away from the ranch. Long zigzags and side trips carried us little forward, and a constant leftward tendency swung us always around,chanel wallet, until we had completed a half circle of which the ranch itself was the centre. The irrigated fields had given place to open country of a semi-desert character grown high with patches of greasewood, sagebrush, thorn-bush; with wide patches of scattered bunch grass; and stretches of alkali waste. Here, unexpectedly to me, we stumbled on a strange but necessary industry incidental to so large an estate. Our nostrils were assailed by a mighty stink. We came around the corner of some high brush directly on a small two-story affair with a factory smokestack. It was fenced in, and the fence was covered with drying hides. I will spare you details, but the function of the place was to make glue, soap, and the like of those cattle whose term of life was marked by misfortune rather than by the butcher's knife. The sole workman at this economical and useful occupation did not seem to mind it. The Captain claimed he was as good as a buzzard at locating the newly demised.
Our ponies did not like the place either. They snorted violently, and pricked their ears back and forth, and were especially relieved and eager to obey when we turned their heads away.
We rode on out into the desert, our ponies skipping expertly through the low brush and gingerly over the alkali crust of the open spaces beneath which might be holes. Jackrabbits by the thousand, literally, hopped away in front of us, spreading in all directions as along the sticks of a fan. They were not particularly afraid, so they loped easily in high-bounding leaps, their ears erect. Many of them sat bolt upright, looking at least two feet high. Occasionally we managed really to scare one, and then it was a grand sight to see him open the throttle and scud away, his ears flat back, in the classical and correct attitude of the constantly recurring phrase of the ancients: "belly to earth he flew!"
Everywhere we went, and wherever a small clump of trees or even large brush offered space, hung the carcasses of coyotes, wildcats,fake uggs boots, and lynx. Some were quite new, while others had completely mummified in the dry air of these interior plains. These were the trophies of the professional "varmint killer," a man hired by the month. Of course it would be only too easy for such an official to loaf on his job, so this one had adopted the unique method of proving his activity. Everywhere the Captain rode he could see that his man had been busy.
All this time we had been working steadily away from the ranch. Long zigzags and side trips carried us little forward, and a constant leftward tendency swung us always around,chanel wallet, until we had completed a half circle of which the ranch itself was the centre. The irrigated fields had given place to open country of a semi-desert character grown high with patches of greasewood, sagebrush, thorn-bush; with wide patches of scattered bunch grass; and stretches of alkali waste. Here, unexpectedly to me, we stumbled on a strange but necessary industry incidental to so large an estate. Our nostrils were assailed by a mighty stink. We came around the corner of some high brush directly on a small two-story affair with a factory smokestack. It was fenced in, and the fence was covered with drying hides. I will spare you details, but the function of the place was to make glue, soap, and the like of those cattle whose term of life was marked by misfortune rather than by the butcher's knife. The sole workman at this economical and useful occupation did not seem to mind it. The Captain claimed he was as good as a buzzard at locating the newly demised.
Our ponies did not like the place either. They snorted violently, and pricked their ears back and forth, and were especially relieved and eager to obey when we turned their heads away.
We rode on out into the desert, our ponies skipping expertly through the low brush and gingerly over the alkali crust of the open spaces beneath which might be holes. Jackrabbits by the thousand, literally, hopped away in front of us, spreading in all directions as along the sticks of a fan. They were not particularly afraid, so they loped easily in high-bounding leaps, their ears erect. Many of them sat bolt upright, looking at least two feet high. Occasionally we managed really to scare one, and then it was a grand sight to see him open the throttle and scud away, his ears flat back, in the classical and correct attitude of the constantly recurring phrase of the ancients: "belly to earth he flew!"
Buck up
Buck up, Seymour's. We-ell played! There, did you ever see anythinglike it?" he broke off disgustedly.
The Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to theback and passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was aperfect pass, except that it came at his head instead of his chest.
Nobody with any pretensions to decent play should have missed it.
Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat. The ball struck his handsand bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for a scrum, and acertain try was lost.
From the scrum the Seymour's forwards broke away to the goal-line,Link,where they were pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence hadbeen pierced, and Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across theline. The enthusiast standing by Clowes expended the last relics of hisvoice in commemorating the fact that his side had the lead.
"Drummond'll be good next year," said Trevor. And he made a mental noteto tell Allardyce, who would succeed him in the command of the schoolfootball, to keep an eye on the player in question.
The triumph of the Seymourites was not long lived. Milton failed toconvert Drummond's try. From the drop-out from the twenty-five lineBarry got the ball, and punted into touch. The throw-out was notstraight, and a scrum was formed. The ball came out to the Day'shalves, and went across to Strachan. Rand-Brown hesitated, and thenmade a futile spring at the first fifteen man's neck. Strachan handedhim off easily, and ran,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. The Seymour's full-back, who was a poorplayer, failed to get across in time. Strachan ran round behind theposts,fake chanel bags, the kick succeeded, and Day's now led by two points.
After this the game continued in Day's half. Five minutes before timewas up, Drummond got the ball from a scrum nearly on the line, passedit to Barry on the wing instead of opening up the game by passing tohis centres, and Barry slipped through in the corner. This putSeymour's just one point ahead, and there they stayed till the whistleblew for no-side.
Milton walked over to the boarding-houses with Clowes and Trevor. Hewas full of the match, particularly of the iniquity of Rand-Brown. "Islanged him on the field," he said. "It's a thing I don't often do, butwhat else _can_ you do when a man plays like that,Home Page? He lost usthree certain tries.""When did you administer your rebuke?" inquired Clowes.
"When he had let Strachan through that second time, in the second half.
I asked him why on earth he tried to play footer at all. I told him agood kiss-in-the-ring club was about his form. It was rather cheap, butI felt so frightfully sick about it. It's sickening to be let down likethat when you've been pressing the whole time, and ought to be scoringevery other minute.""What had he to say on the subject?" asked Clowes.
"Oh, he gassed a bit until I told him I'd kick him if he said anotherword. That shut him up.""You ought to have kicked him. You want all the kicking practice youcan get. I never saw anything feebler than that shot of yours afterDrummond's try.""I'd like to see _you_ take a kick like that. It was nearly on thetouch-line. Still, when we play you, we shan't need to convert any ofour tries. We'll get our thirty points without that. Perhaps you'd liketo scratch?""As a matter of fact," said Clowes confidentially, "I am going to scoreseven tries against you off my own bat. You'll be sorry you ever turnedout when we've finished with you."
The Seymourite playing centre next to Rand-Brown had run through to theback and passed out to his wing, as a good centre should. It was aperfect pass, except that it came at his head instead of his chest.
Nobody with any pretensions to decent play should have missed it.
Rand-Brown, however, achieved that feat. The ball struck his handsand bounded forward. The referee blew his whistle for a scrum, and acertain try was lost.
From the scrum the Seymour's forwards broke away to the goal-line,Link,where they were pulled up by Bassett. The next minute the defence hadbeen pierced, and Drummond was lying on the ball a yard across theline. The enthusiast standing by Clowes expended the last relics of hisvoice in commemorating the fact that his side had the lead.
"Drummond'll be good next year," said Trevor. And he made a mental noteto tell Allardyce, who would succeed him in the command of the schoolfootball, to keep an eye on the player in question.
The triumph of the Seymourites was not long lived. Milton failed toconvert Drummond's try. From the drop-out from the twenty-five lineBarry got the ball, and punted into touch. The throw-out was notstraight, and a scrum was formed. The ball came out to the Day'shalves, and went across to Strachan. Rand-Brown hesitated, and thenmade a futile spring at the first fifteen man's neck. Strachan handedhim off easily, and ran,Cheap Adidas Jeremy Scott Big Tongue Shoes. The Seymour's full-back, who was a poorplayer, failed to get across in time. Strachan ran round behind theposts,fake chanel bags, the kick succeeded, and Day's now led by two points.
After this the game continued in Day's half. Five minutes before timewas up, Drummond got the ball from a scrum nearly on the line, passedit to Barry on the wing instead of opening up the game by passing tohis centres, and Barry slipped through in the corner. This putSeymour's just one point ahead, and there they stayed till the whistleblew for no-side.
Milton walked over to the boarding-houses with Clowes and Trevor. Hewas full of the match, particularly of the iniquity of Rand-Brown. "Islanged him on the field," he said. "It's a thing I don't often do, butwhat else _can_ you do when a man plays like that,Home Page? He lost usthree certain tries.""When did you administer your rebuke?" inquired Clowes.
"When he had let Strachan through that second time, in the second half.
I asked him why on earth he tried to play footer at all. I told him agood kiss-in-the-ring club was about his form. It was rather cheap, butI felt so frightfully sick about it. It's sickening to be let down likethat when you've been pressing the whole time, and ought to be scoringevery other minute.""What had he to say on the subject?" asked Clowes.
"Oh, he gassed a bit until I told him I'd kick him if he said anotherword. That shut him up.""You ought to have kicked him. You want all the kicking practice youcan get. I never saw anything feebler than that shot of yours afterDrummond's try.""I'd like to see _you_ take a kick like that. It was nearly on thetouch-line. Still, when we play you, we shan't need to convert any ofour tries. We'll get our thirty points without that. Perhaps you'd liketo scratch?""As a matter of fact," said Clowes confidentially, "I am going to scoreseven tries against you off my own bat. You'll be sorry you ever turnedout when we've finished with you."
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Feeling feverish and sleepless
Feeling feverish and sleepless, she slipped on her gray Shaker cloak and stole quietly downstairs for a breath of air. Her grandfather and grandmother were talking on the piazza, and good humor seemed to have been restored. "I was over to the tavern tonight," she heard him say, as she sat down at a little distance. "I was over to the tavern tonight, an' a feller from Gorham got to talkin' an' braggin' 'bout what a stock o' goods they kep' in the store over there. 'An',' says I, 'I bate ye dollars to doughnuts that there hain't a darn thing ye can ask for at Bill Pike's store at Pleasant River that he can't go down cellar, or up attic, or out in the barn chamber an' git for ye.' Well, sir, he took me up, an' I borrered the money of Joe Dennett, who held the stakes, an' we went right over to Bill Pike's with all the boys follerin' on behind. An' the Gorham man never let on what he was going to ask for till the hull crowd of us got inside the store. Then says he, as p'lite as a basket o' chips, 'Mr. Pike, I'd like to buy a pulpit if you can oblige me with one.'
"Bill scratched his head an' I held my breath. Then says he, "Pears to me I'd ought to hev a pulpit or two, if I can jest remember where I keep 'em. I don't never cal'late to be out o' pulpits, but I'm so plagued for room I can't keep 'em in here with the groc'ries. Jim (that's his new store boy), you jest take a lantern an' run out in the far corner o' the shed, at the end o' the hickory woodpile, an' see how many pulpits we've got in stock!' Well, Jim run out, an' when he come back he says, 'We've got two, Mr. Pike. Shall I bring one of 'em in?'
"At that the boys all bust out laughin' an' hollerin' an' tauntin' the Gorham man, an' he paid up with a good will, I tell ye!"
"I don't approve of bettin'," said Mrs. Wiley grimly, "but I'll try to sanctify the money by usin' it for a new wash-boiler."
"The fact is," explained Old Kennebec, somewhat confused, "that the boys made me spend every cent of it then an' there."
Rose heard her grandmother's caustic reply, and then paid no further attention until her keen ear caught the sound of Stephen's name. It was a part of her unhappiness that since her broken engagement no one would ever allude to him, and she longed to hear him mentioned, so that perchance she could get some inkling of his movements.
"I met Stephen tonight for the first time in a week," said Mr. Wiley. "He kind o' keeps out o' my way lately. He's goin' to drive his span into Portland tomorrow mornin' and bring Rufus home from the hospital Sunday afternoon. The doctors think they've made a success of their job, but Rufus has got to be bandaged up a spell longer. Stephen is goin' to join the drive Monday mornin' at the bridge here, so I'll get the latest news o' the boy. Land! I'll be turrible glad if he gets out with his eyesight, if it's only for Steve's sake. He's a turrible good fellow,chanel wallet, Steve is! He said something tonight that made me set more store by him than ever. I told you I hed n't heard an unkind word ag'in' Rose sence she come home from Boston,cheap jordans, an' no more I hev till this evenin'. There was two or three fellers talkin' in the post-office,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/, an' they did n't suspicion I was settin' on the steps outside the screen door,jordan 11. That Jim Jenkins, that Rose so everlastin'ly snubbed at the tavern dance, spoke up, an' says he: 'This time last year Rose Wiley could 'a' hed the choice of any man on the river, an' now I bet ye she can't get nary one.'
"Bill scratched his head an' I held my breath. Then says he, "Pears to me I'd ought to hev a pulpit or two, if I can jest remember where I keep 'em. I don't never cal'late to be out o' pulpits, but I'm so plagued for room I can't keep 'em in here with the groc'ries. Jim (that's his new store boy), you jest take a lantern an' run out in the far corner o' the shed, at the end o' the hickory woodpile, an' see how many pulpits we've got in stock!' Well, Jim run out, an' when he come back he says, 'We've got two, Mr. Pike. Shall I bring one of 'em in?'
"At that the boys all bust out laughin' an' hollerin' an' tauntin' the Gorham man, an' he paid up with a good will, I tell ye!"
"I don't approve of bettin'," said Mrs. Wiley grimly, "but I'll try to sanctify the money by usin' it for a new wash-boiler."
"The fact is," explained Old Kennebec, somewhat confused, "that the boys made me spend every cent of it then an' there."
Rose heard her grandmother's caustic reply, and then paid no further attention until her keen ear caught the sound of Stephen's name. It was a part of her unhappiness that since her broken engagement no one would ever allude to him, and she longed to hear him mentioned, so that perchance she could get some inkling of his movements.
"I met Stephen tonight for the first time in a week," said Mr. Wiley. "He kind o' keeps out o' my way lately. He's goin' to drive his span into Portland tomorrow mornin' and bring Rufus home from the hospital Sunday afternoon. The doctors think they've made a success of their job, but Rufus has got to be bandaged up a spell longer. Stephen is goin' to join the drive Monday mornin' at the bridge here, so I'll get the latest news o' the boy. Land! I'll be turrible glad if he gets out with his eyesight, if it's only for Steve's sake. He's a turrible good fellow,chanel wallet, Steve is! He said something tonight that made me set more store by him than ever. I told you I hed n't heard an unkind word ag'in' Rose sence she come home from Boston,cheap jordans, an' no more I hev till this evenin'. There was two or three fellers talkin' in the post-office,http://www.fakeuggsforsales.com/, an' they did n't suspicion I was settin' on the steps outside the screen door,jordan 11. That Jim Jenkins, that Rose so everlastin'ly snubbed at the tavern dance, spoke up, an' says he: 'This time last year Rose Wiley could 'a' hed the choice of any man on the river, an' now I bet ye she can't get nary one.'
Do they kneel in prayer before they eat
"Do they kneel in prayer before they eat, as all Believers do?" asked Shaker Mary.
"I don't believe Adam and Eve was Believers, 'cause who would have taught them to be?" replied Sue; "still we might let them pray, anyway, though clothespins don't kneel nicely."
"I've got another one all dressed," said little Shaker Jane.
"We can't have any more; Adam and Eve did n't have only two children in my Sunday-School lesson, Cain and Abel," objected Sue.
"Can't this one be a company?" pleaded Mary, anxious not to waste the clothespin.
"But where could comp'ny come from?" queried Sue. "There was n't any more people anywheres but just Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel. Put the clothespin in your apron-pocket, Jane, and bimeby we'll let Eve have a little new baby, and I'll get Mardie to name it right out of the Bible. Now let's begin. Adam is awfully tired this morning; he says, 'Eve, I've been workin' all night and I can't eat my breakfuss.' Now, Mary, you be Cain, he's a little boy, and you must say, 'Fardie, play a little with me, please!' and Fardie will say, 'Child'en should n't talk at the--'"
What subjects of conversation would have been aired at the Adamic family board before breakfast was finished will never be known, for Eldress Abby, with a firm but not unkind grasp, took Shaker Jane and Mary by their little hands and said, "Morning's not the time for play; run over to Sister Martha and help her shell the peas; then there'll be your seams to oversew."
Sue watched the disappearing children and saw the fabric of her dream fade into thin air; but she was a person of considerable individuality for her years. Her lip quivered, tears rushed to her eyes and flowed silently down her cheeks, but without a glance at Eldress Abby or a word of comment she walked slowly away from the laundry, her chin high.
"Sue meant all right, she was only playing the plays of the world," said Eldress Abby, "but you can well understand, Susanna,retro jordans, that we can't let our Shaker children play that way and get wrong ideas into their heads at the beginning. We don't condenm an honest, orderly marriage as a worldly institution, but we claim it has no place in Christ's kingdom; therefore we leave it to the world, where it belongs. The world's people live on the lower plane of Adam; the Shakers try to live on the Christ plane, in virgin purity, longsuffering, meekness, and patience."
"I see, I know," Susanna answered slowly, with a little glance at injured Sue walking toward the house, "but we need n't leave the children unhappy this morning, for I can think of a play that will comfort them and please you. Come back, Sue,fake uggs usa! Wait a minute, Mary and Jane,jordan 11, before you go to Sister Martha! We will play the story that Sister Tabitha told us last week,moncler womens jackets. Do you remember about Mother Ann Lee in the English prison? The soapbox will be her cell, for it was so small she could not lie down in it. Take some of the shingles, Jane, and close up the open side of the box. Do you see the large brown spot in one of them, Mary? Push that very hard with a clothespin and there 'll be a hole through the shingle; that's right! Now, Sister Tabitha said that Mother Ann was kept for days without food, for people thought she was a wicked, dangerous woman, and they would have been willing to let her die of starvation. But there was a great keyhole in the door, and James Whittaker, a boy of nineteen, who loved Mother Ann and believed in her, put the stem of a clay pipe in the hole and poured a mixture of wine and milk through it. He managed to do this day after day, so that when the jailer opened the cell door, expecting to find Mother Ann dying for lack of food, she walked out looking almost as strong and well as when she entered. You can play it all out, and afterwards you can make the ship that brought Mother Ann and the other Shakers from Liverpool to New York. The clothes-pins can be who will they be, Jane?"
"I don't believe Adam and Eve was Believers, 'cause who would have taught them to be?" replied Sue; "still we might let them pray, anyway, though clothespins don't kneel nicely."
"I've got another one all dressed," said little Shaker Jane.
"We can't have any more; Adam and Eve did n't have only two children in my Sunday-School lesson, Cain and Abel," objected Sue.
"Can't this one be a company?" pleaded Mary, anxious not to waste the clothespin.
"But where could comp'ny come from?" queried Sue. "There was n't any more people anywheres but just Adam and Eve and Cain and Abel. Put the clothespin in your apron-pocket, Jane, and bimeby we'll let Eve have a little new baby, and I'll get Mardie to name it right out of the Bible. Now let's begin. Adam is awfully tired this morning; he says, 'Eve, I've been workin' all night and I can't eat my breakfuss.' Now, Mary, you be Cain, he's a little boy, and you must say, 'Fardie, play a little with me, please!' and Fardie will say, 'Child'en should n't talk at the--'"
What subjects of conversation would have been aired at the Adamic family board before breakfast was finished will never be known, for Eldress Abby, with a firm but not unkind grasp, took Shaker Jane and Mary by their little hands and said, "Morning's not the time for play; run over to Sister Martha and help her shell the peas; then there'll be your seams to oversew."
Sue watched the disappearing children and saw the fabric of her dream fade into thin air; but she was a person of considerable individuality for her years. Her lip quivered, tears rushed to her eyes and flowed silently down her cheeks, but without a glance at Eldress Abby or a word of comment she walked slowly away from the laundry, her chin high.
"Sue meant all right, she was only playing the plays of the world," said Eldress Abby, "but you can well understand, Susanna,retro jordans, that we can't let our Shaker children play that way and get wrong ideas into their heads at the beginning. We don't condenm an honest, orderly marriage as a worldly institution, but we claim it has no place in Christ's kingdom; therefore we leave it to the world, where it belongs. The world's people live on the lower plane of Adam; the Shakers try to live on the Christ plane, in virgin purity, longsuffering, meekness, and patience."
"I see, I know," Susanna answered slowly, with a little glance at injured Sue walking toward the house, "but we need n't leave the children unhappy this morning, for I can think of a play that will comfort them and please you. Come back, Sue,fake uggs usa! Wait a minute, Mary and Jane,jordan 11, before you go to Sister Martha! We will play the story that Sister Tabitha told us last week,moncler womens jackets. Do you remember about Mother Ann Lee in the English prison? The soapbox will be her cell, for it was so small she could not lie down in it. Take some of the shingles, Jane, and close up the open side of the box. Do you see the large brown spot in one of them, Mary? Push that very hard with a clothespin and there 'll be a hole through the shingle; that's right! Now, Sister Tabitha said that Mother Ann was kept for days without food, for people thought she was a wicked, dangerous woman, and they would have been willing to let her die of starvation. But there was a great keyhole in the door, and James Whittaker, a boy of nineteen, who loved Mother Ann and believed in her, put the stem of a clay pipe in the hole and poured a mixture of wine and milk through it. He managed to do this day after day, so that when the jailer opened the cell door, expecting to find Mother Ann dying for lack of food, she walked out looking almost as strong and well as when she entered. You can play it all out, and afterwards you can make the ship that brought Mother Ann and the other Shakers from Liverpool to New York. The clothes-pins can be who will they be, Jane?"
He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under fivehundred dollars
He doubted if it was possible to go through with it under fivehundred dollars; and,retro jordans, if, as seemed only too probable, Mrs Peagrimtook the matter in hand and gave herself her head, it might get intofour figures.
"Major Selby, of course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooingnote in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made adeep impression upon her. "Of course Major Selby, for one. And MrRooke,jordans. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt ifthey were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn't he a friend of yours?"Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to enduremore, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man whohad sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped itsprecious person into little bits.
"He is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wishhim to be invited!"Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yieldminor points.
"Very well, if you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he wasquite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him toNewport last summer.""Much," said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer.""Oh, very well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include MrMason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop rightround and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want."2,moncler mens jackets.
It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other.
Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet,at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which MrGoble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since theend of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mentalupheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was inthe position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mineand now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feelingthe truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or penthe saddest are these--"It might have been." The electric success of"The Rose of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as hedid, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap atalmost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad halfhour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on hisindomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, bygetting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shakinghis head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which youngauthors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception andimpressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive yourexpert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioninggloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show tobeat the band . . ,cheap chanel bags. by doing all these things, it might still bepossible to depress Mr Pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce himto sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend whodidn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as asporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a good kid andafter all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a chanceon the road.
"Major Selby, of course," said Mrs Peagrim musingly, with a cooingnote in her voice. Long since had that polished man of affairs made adeep impression upon her. "Of course Major Selby, for one. And MrRooke,jordans. Then there are one or two of my friends who would be hurt ifthey were left out. How about Mr Mason? Isn't he a friend of yours?"Mr Pilkington snorted. He had endured much and was prepared to enduremore, but he drew the line at squandering his money on the man whohad sneaked up behind his brain-child with a hatchet and chopped itsprecious person into little bits.
"He is _not_ a friend of mine," he said stiffly, "and I do not wishhim to be invited!"Having attained her main objective, Mrs Peagrim was prepared to yieldminor points.
"Very well, if you do not like him," she said. "But I thought he wasquite an intimate of yours. It was you who asked me to invite him toNewport last summer.""Much," said Mr Pilkington coldly, "has happened since last summer.""Oh, very well," said Mrs Peagrim again. "Then we will not include MrMason. Now, directly the curtain has fallen, Otie dear, pop rightround and find Mr Goble and tell him what you want."2,moncler mens jackets.
It is not only twin-souls in this world who yearn to meet each other.
Between Otis Pilkington and Mr Goble there was little in common, yet,at the moment when Otis set out to find Mr Goble, the thing which MrGoble desired most in the world was an interview with Otis. Since theend of the first act, the manager had been in a state of mentalupheaval. Reverting to the gold-mine simile again, Mr Goble was inthe position of a man who has had a chance of purchasing such a mineand now, learning too late of the discovery of the reef, is feelingthe truth of the poet's dictum that of all sad words of tongue or penthe saddest are these--"It might have been." The electric success of"The Rose of America" had stunned Mr Goble: and, realizing, as hedid, that he might have bought Otis Pilkington's share dirt cheap atalmost any point of the preliminary tour, he was having a bad halfhour with himself. The only ray in the darkness which brooded on hisindomitable soul was the thought that it might still be possible, bygetting hold of Mr Pilkington before the notices appeared and shakinghis head sadly and talking about the misleading hopes which youngauthors so often draw from an enthusiastic first-night reception andimpressing upon him that first-night receptions do not deceive yourexpert who has been fifteen years in the show-business and mentioninggloomily that he had heard a coupla the critics roastin' the show tobeat the band . . ,cheap chanel bags. by doing all these things, it might still bepossible to depress Mr Pilkington's young enthusiasm and induce himto sell his share at a sacrifice price to a great-hearted friend whodidn't think the thing would run a week but was willing to buy as asporting speculation, because he thought Mr Pilkington a good kid andafter all these shows that flop in New York sometimes have a chanceon the road.
Orde swooped down on his son and tossed him on his shoulder
But Mr. Orde swooped down on his son and tossed him on his shoulder.
"That'll do," he advised, "we're all here. Lord, Corrigan! I thought you were afire at least."
"You got to show us up a reg'lar Christmas dinner to match that," said one of the men to Corrigan.
After the meal, which Bobby enjoyed thoroughly, because it was so different from what he had at home, he had a request to proffer.
"Papa," he demanded, "I want to go out on the booms."
"Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around."
But Jim Denning would not have this.
"Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fished out from running logs before you were half his age."
Mr. Orde laughed.
"Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days."
"Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him."
At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passing from the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years, but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steady unwavering determination that the river life develops. In all details of equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felt hat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed by the broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off a little below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armed with thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks.
"Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!"
The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.
"I want you to take Bobby out on the booms," commanded Denning, "and be careful he don't fall in."
The older men moved away. Bobby and Jimmy Powers looked a little bashfully at each other, and then turned to where the first hewn logs gave access to the booms.
"Ever been out on 'em afore?" asked Jimmy Powers.
"Yes" replied Bobby; then after a pause, "I been out to the swing with Papa."
They walked out on the floating booms, which tipped and dipped ever so slightly under their weight. Bobby caught himself with a little stagger, although his footing was a good three feet in width. On either side of him nuzzled the great logs, like patient beasts, and between them were narrow strips of water, the colour of steel that has just cooled.
"How deep is it here?" asked Bobby.
"Bout six feet," replied Jimmy Powers.
They passed an intersection, and came to an empty enclosure over which the water stretched like a blue sheet. Bobby looked back. Already the shore seemed far away. Through the interstices between the piles the wavelets went _lap_, _lap_, _slap_, _lap_! Beyond were men working the reluctant logs down toward the lower end of the booms. Some jabbed the pike poles in and then walked forward along the boom logs. Others ran quickly over the logs themselves until they had gained timbers large enough to sustain their weight, whence they were able to work with greater advantage. The supporting log rolled and dipped under the burden of the man pushing mightily against his implement; but always the riverman trod it, first one way, then the other, in entire unconsciousness of the fact that he was doing so. The dark flanks of the log heaved dripping from the river, and rolled silently back again, picked by the long sharp caulks of the riverman's boots.
"That'll do," he advised, "we're all here. Lord, Corrigan! I thought you were afire at least."
"You got to show us up a reg'lar Christmas dinner to match that," said one of the men to Corrigan.
After the meal, which Bobby enjoyed thoroughly, because it was so different from what he had at home, he had a request to proffer.
"Papa," he demanded, "I want to go out on the booms."
"Haven't time to-day, Bobby," replied Mr. Orde. "You just play around."
But Jim Denning would not have this.
"Can't start 'em in too early, Jack," said he. "I bet you'd been fished out from running logs before you were half his age."
Mr. Orde laughed.
"Right you are, Jim, but we were raised different in those days."
"Well," said Denning, "work's slack. I'll let one of the men take him."
At the moment a youth of not more than fifteen years of age was passing from the cook house to the booms. He had the slenderness of his years, but was toughly knit, and already possessed in eye and mouth the steady unwavering determination that the river life develops. In all details of equipment he was a riverman complete: the narrow-brimmed black felt hat, pushed back from a tangle of curls; the flannel shirt crossed by the broad bands of the suspenders; the kersey trousers "stagged" off a little below the knee; the heavy knit socks; and the strong shoes armed with thin half-inch, needle-sharp caulks.
"Jimmy Powers!" called the River Boss after this boy, "Come here!"
The youth approached, grinning cheerfully.
"I want you to take Bobby out on the booms," commanded Denning, "and be careful he don't fall in."
The older men moved away. Bobby and Jimmy Powers looked a little bashfully at each other, and then turned to where the first hewn logs gave access to the booms.
"Ever been out on 'em afore?" asked Jimmy Powers.
"Yes" replied Bobby; then after a pause, "I been out to the swing with Papa."
They walked out on the floating booms, which tipped and dipped ever so slightly under their weight. Bobby caught himself with a little stagger, although his footing was a good three feet in width. On either side of him nuzzled the great logs, like patient beasts, and between them were narrow strips of water, the colour of steel that has just cooled.
"How deep is it here?" asked Bobby.
"Bout six feet," replied Jimmy Powers.
They passed an intersection, and came to an empty enclosure over which the water stretched like a blue sheet. Bobby looked back. Already the shore seemed far away. Through the interstices between the piles the wavelets went _lap_, _lap_, _slap_, _lap_! Beyond were men working the reluctant logs down toward the lower end of the booms. Some jabbed the pike poles in and then walked forward along the boom logs. Others ran quickly over the logs themselves until they had gained timbers large enough to sustain their weight, whence they were able to work with greater advantage. The supporting log rolled and dipped under the burden of the man pushing mightily against his implement; but always the riverman trod it, first one way, then the other, in entire unconsciousness of the fact that he was doing so. The dark flanks of the log heaved dripping from the river, and rolled silently back again, picked by the long sharp caulks of the riverman's boots.
One morning he came in from a talk with the supply-teamster
One morning he came in from a talk with the supply-teamster, and woke Dyer, who was not yet up.
"I'm going down home for two or three weeks," he announced to Dyer, "you know my address. You'll have to take charge, and I guess you'd better let the scaling go. We can get the tally at the banking grounds when we begin to haul. Now we ain't got all the time there is, so you want to keep the boys at it pretty well."
Dyer twisted the little points of his mustache. "All right, sir," said he with his smile so inscrutably insolent that Radway never saw the insolence at all. He thought this a poor year for a man in Radway's position to spend Christmas with his family, but it was none of his business.
"Do as much as you can in the marsh, Dyer," went on the jobber. "I don't believe it's really necessary to lay off any more there on account of the weather. We've simply got to get that job in before the big snows."
"All right, sir," repeated Dyer.
The scaler did what he considered his duty. All day long he tramped back and forth from one gang of men to the other, keeping a sharp eye on the details of the work. His practical experience was sufficient to solve readily such problems of broken tackle, extra expedients, or facility which the days brought forth. The fact that in him was vested the power to discharge kept the men at work.
Dyer was in the habit of starting for the marsh an hour or so after sunrise. The crew, of course, were at work by daylight. Dyer heard them often through his doze, just as he heard the chore-boy come in to build the fire and fill the water pail afresh. After a time the fire, built of kerosene and pitchy jack pine, would get so hot that in self-defense he would arise and dress. Then he would breakfast leisurely.
Thus he incurred the enmity of the cook and cookee. Those individuals have to prepare food three times a day for a half hundred heavy eaters; besides which, on sleigh-haul, they are supposed to serve a breakfast at three o'clock for the loaders and a variety of lunches up to midnight for the sprinkler men. As a consequence, they resent infractions of the little system they may have been able to introduce.
Now the business of a foreman is to be up as soon as anybody. He does none of the work himself, but he must see that somebody else does it, and does it well. For this he needs actual experience at the work itself, but above all zeal and constant presence. He must know how a thing ought to be done, and he must be on hand unexpectedly to see how its accomplishment is progressing. Dyer should have been out of bed at first horn-blow.
One morning he slept until nearly ten o'clock. It was inexplicable! He hurried from his bunk, made a hasty toilet, and started for the dining-room to get some sort of a lunch to do him until dinner time. As he stepped from the door of the office he caught sight of two men hurrying from the cook camp to the men's camp. He thought he heard the hum of conversation in the latter building. The cookee set hot coffee before him. For the rest, he took what he could find cold on the table.
"I'm going down home for two or three weeks," he announced to Dyer, "you know my address. You'll have to take charge, and I guess you'd better let the scaling go. We can get the tally at the banking grounds when we begin to haul. Now we ain't got all the time there is, so you want to keep the boys at it pretty well."
Dyer twisted the little points of his mustache. "All right, sir," said he with his smile so inscrutably insolent that Radway never saw the insolence at all. He thought this a poor year for a man in Radway's position to spend Christmas with his family, but it was none of his business.
"Do as much as you can in the marsh, Dyer," went on the jobber. "I don't believe it's really necessary to lay off any more there on account of the weather. We've simply got to get that job in before the big snows."
"All right, sir," repeated Dyer.
The scaler did what he considered his duty. All day long he tramped back and forth from one gang of men to the other, keeping a sharp eye on the details of the work. His practical experience was sufficient to solve readily such problems of broken tackle, extra expedients, or facility which the days brought forth. The fact that in him was vested the power to discharge kept the men at work.
Dyer was in the habit of starting for the marsh an hour or so after sunrise. The crew, of course, were at work by daylight. Dyer heard them often through his doze, just as he heard the chore-boy come in to build the fire and fill the water pail afresh. After a time the fire, built of kerosene and pitchy jack pine, would get so hot that in self-defense he would arise and dress. Then he would breakfast leisurely.
Thus he incurred the enmity of the cook and cookee. Those individuals have to prepare food three times a day for a half hundred heavy eaters; besides which, on sleigh-haul, they are supposed to serve a breakfast at three o'clock for the loaders and a variety of lunches up to midnight for the sprinkler men. As a consequence, they resent infractions of the little system they may have been able to introduce.
Now the business of a foreman is to be up as soon as anybody. He does none of the work himself, but he must see that somebody else does it, and does it well. For this he needs actual experience at the work itself, but above all zeal and constant presence. He must know how a thing ought to be done, and he must be on hand unexpectedly to see how its accomplishment is progressing. Dyer should have been out of bed at first horn-blow.
One morning he slept until nearly ten o'clock. It was inexplicable! He hurried from his bunk, made a hasty toilet, and started for the dining-room to get some sort of a lunch to do him until dinner time. As he stepped from the door of the office he caught sight of two men hurrying from the cook camp to the men's camp. He thought he heard the hum of conversation in the latter building. The cookee set hot coffee before him. For the rest, he took what he could find cold on the table.
What was that
"What was that?" asked Graham.
"'I am awakened and my heart is with you.' And bow--bow royally. But first we must get you black robes--for black is your colour. Do you mind? And then they will disperse to their homes."
Graham hesitated. "I am in your hands," he said.
Ostrog was clearly of that opinion. He thought for a moment, turned to the curtain and called brief directions to some unseen attendants. Almost immediately a black robe, the very fellow of the black robe Graham had worn in the theatre, was brought. And as he threw it about his shoulders there came from the room without the shrilling of a high-pitched bell. Ostrog turned in interrogation to the attendant, then suddenly seemed to change his mind, pulled the curtain aside and disappeared.
For a moment Graham stood with the deferential attendant listening to Ostrog's retreating steps. There was a sound of quick question and answer and of men running. The curtain was snatched back and Ostrog reappeared, his massive face glowing with excitement. He crossed the room in a stride, clicked the room into darkness, gripped Grahams arm and pointed to the mirror.
"Even as we turned away," he said.
Graham saw his index finger, black and colossal, above the mirrored Council House. For a moment he did not understand. And then he perceived that the flagstaff that had carried the white banner was bare.
"Do you mean--?" he began.
"The Council has surrendered. Its rule is at an end for evermore."
"Look!" and Ostrog pointed to a coil of black that crept in little jerks up the vacant flagstaff, unfolding as it rose.
The oval picture paled as Lincoln pulled the curtain aside and entered.
"They are clamourous," he said.
Ostrog kept his grip of Graham's arm.
"We have raised the people," he said. "We have given them arms. For today at least their wishes must be law."
Lincoln held the Curtain open for Graham and Ostrog to pass through.
On his way to the markets Graham had a transitory glance of a long narrow white-walled room in which men in the universal blue canvas were carrying covered things like biers, and about which men in medical purple hurried to and fro. From this room came groans and wailing. He had an impression of an empty blood-stained couch, of men on other couches, bandaged and blood-stained. It was just a glimpse from a railed footway and then a buttress hid the place and they were going on towards the markets.
The roar of the multitude was near now: it leapt to thunder. And, arresting his attention, a fluttering of black banners, the waving of blue canvas and brown rags, and the swarming vastness of the theatre near the public markets came into view down a long passage. The picture opened out. He perceived they were entering the great theatre of his first appearance, the great theatre he had last seen as a chequer-work of glare and blackness in his flight from the red police. This time he entered it along a gallery at a level high above the stage. The place was now brilliantly lit again. He sought the gangway up which he had fled, but he could not tell it from among its dozens of fellows; nor could he see anything of the smashed seats, deflated cushions, and such like traces of the fight because of the density of the people. Except the stage the whole place was closely packed. Looking down the effect was a vast area of stippled pink, each dot a still upturned face regarding him. At his appearance with Ostrog the cheering died away, the singing died away, a common interest stilled and unified the disorder. It seemed as though every individual of those myriads was watching him.
"'I am awakened and my heart is with you.' And bow--bow royally. But first we must get you black robes--for black is your colour. Do you mind? And then they will disperse to their homes."
Graham hesitated. "I am in your hands," he said.
Ostrog was clearly of that opinion. He thought for a moment, turned to the curtain and called brief directions to some unseen attendants. Almost immediately a black robe, the very fellow of the black robe Graham had worn in the theatre, was brought. And as he threw it about his shoulders there came from the room without the shrilling of a high-pitched bell. Ostrog turned in interrogation to the attendant, then suddenly seemed to change his mind, pulled the curtain aside and disappeared.
For a moment Graham stood with the deferential attendant listening to Ostrog's retreating steps. There was a sound of quick question and answer and of men running. The curtain was snatched back and Ostrog reappeared, his massive face glowing with excitement. He crossed the room in a stride, clicked the room into darkness, gripped Grahams arm and pointed to the mirror.
"Even as we turned away," he said.
Graham saw his index finger, black and colossal, above the mirrored Council House. For a moment he did not understand. And then he perceived that the flagstaff that had carried the white banner was bare.
"Do you mean--?" he began.
"The Council has surrendered. Its rule is at an end for evermore."
"Look!" and Ostrog pointed to a coil of black that crept in little jerks up the vacant flagstaff, unfolding as it rose.
The oval picture paled as Lincoln pulled the curtain aside and entered.
"They are clamourous," he said.
Ostrog kept his grip of Graham's arm.
"We have raised the people," he said. "We have given them arms. For today at least their wishes must be law."
Lincoln held the Curtain open for Graham and Ostrog to pass through.
On his way to the markets Graham had a transitory glance of a long narrow white-walled room in which men in the universal blue canvas were carrying covered things like biers, and about which men in medical purple hurried to and fro. From this room came groans and wailing. He had an impression of an empty blood-stained couch, of men on other couches, bandaged and blood-stained. It was just a glimpse from a railed footway and then a buttress hid the place and they were going on towards the markets.
The roar of the multitude was near now: it leapt to thunder. And, arresting his attention, a fluttering of black banners, the waving of blue canvas and brown rags, and the swarming vastness of the theatre near the public markets came into view down a long passage. The picture opened out. He perceived they were entering the great theatre of his first appearance, the great theatre he had last seen as a chequer-work of glare and blackness in his flight from the red police. This time he entered it along a gallery at a level high above the stage. The place was now brilliantly lit again. He sought the gangway up which he had fled, but he could not tell it from among its dozens of fellows; nor could he see anything of the smashed seats, deflated cushions, and such like traces of the fight because of the density of the people. Except the stage the whole place was closely packed. Looking down the effect was a vast area of stippled pink, each dot a still upturned face regarding him. At his appearance with Ostrog the cheering died away, the singing died away, a common interest stilled and unified the disorder. It seemed as though every individual of those myriads was watching him.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
I sprang to him
I sprang to him, and there, withered in Ayesha’s kiss, slain by the fire of her love, Leo lay dead — lay dead upon the breast of dead Atene!
Chapter 24 The Passing of Ayesha
I heard Ayesha say presently, and the words struck me as dreadful in their hopeless acceptance of a doom against which even she had no strength to struggle.
“It seems that my lord has left me for awhile; I must hasten to my lord afar.”
After that I do not quite know what happened. I had lost the man who was all in all to me, friend and child in one, and I was crushed as I had never been before. It seemed so sad that I, old and outworn, should still live on whilst he in the flower of his age, snatched from joy and greatness such as no man hath known, lay thus asleep.
I think that by an afterthought,jordan 11, Ayesha and Oros tried to restore him, tried without result, for here her powers were of no avail. Indeed my conviction is that although some lingering life still kept him on his feet, Leo had really died at the moment of her embrace, since when I looked at him before he fell, his face was that of a dead man.
Yes, I believe that last speech of hers, although she knew it not, was addressed to his spirit, for in her burning kiss his flesh had perished.
When at length I recovered myself a little, it was to hear Ayesha in a cold, calm voice — her face I could not see for she had veiled herself — commanding certain priests who had been summoned to “bear away the body of that accursed woman and bury her as befits her rank.” Even then I bethought me, I remember, of the tale of Jehu and Jezebel.
Leo, looking strangely calm and happy, lay now upon a couch, the arms folded on his breast. When the priests had tramped away carrying their royal burden, Ayesha, who sat by his body brooding, seemed to awake, for she rose and said —“I need a messenger, and for no common journey, since he must search out the habitations of the Shades,” and she turned herself towards Oros and appeared to look at him.
Now for the first time I saw that priest change countenance a little,fake chanel bags, for the eternal smile, of which even this scene had not quite rid it, left his face and he grew pale and trembled.
“Thou art afraid,” she said contemptuously. “Be at rest, Oros, I will not send one who is afraid. Holly, wilt thou go for me — and him?”
“Aye,” I answered. “I am weary of life and desire no other end. Only let it be swift and painless.”
She mused a while, then said —“Nay, thy time is not yet, thou still hast work to do,cheap moncler jackets. Endure, my Holly, ’tis only for a breath.”
Then she looked at the Shaman,chanel classic bags, the man turned to stone who all this while had stood there as a statue stands, and cried —“Awake!”
Instantly he seemed to thaw into life, his limbs relaxed, his breast heaved, he was as he had always been: ancient, gnarled, malevolent.
“I hear thee, mistress,” he said, bowing as a man bows to the power that he hates.
“Thou seest, Simbri,” and she waved her hand.
“I see. Things have befallen as Atene and I foretold, have they not? ‘Ere long the corpse of a new-crowned Khan of Kaloon,’” and he pointed to the gold circlet that Ayesha had set on Leo’s brow, “‘will lie upon the brink of the Pit of Flame’— as I foretold.” An evil smile crept into his eyes and he went on —“Hadst thou not smote me dumb, I who watched could have warned thee that they would so befall; but, great mistress, it pleased thee to smite me dumb. And so it seems, O Hes, that thou hast overshot thyself and liest broken at the foot of that pinnacle which step by step thou hast climbed for more than two thousand weary years. See what thou hast bought at the price of countless lives that now before the throne of Judgment bring accusations against thy powers misused, and cry out for justice on thy head,” and he looked at the dead form of Leo.
Chapter 24 The Passing of Ayesha
I heard Ayesha say presently, and the words struck me as dreadful in their hopeless acceptance of a doom against which even she had no strength to struggle.
“It seems that my lord has left me for awhile; I must hasten to my lord afar.”
After that I do not quite know what happened. I had lost the man who was all in all to me, friend and child in one, and I was crushed as I had never been before. It seemed so sad that I, old and outworn, should still live on whilst he in the flower of his age, snatched from joy and greatness such as no man hath known, lay thus asleep.
I think that by an afterthought,jordan 11, Ayesha and Oros tried to restore him, tried without result, for here her powers were of no avail. Indeed my conviction is that although some lingering life still kept him on his feet, Leo had really died at the moment of her embrace, since when I looked at him before he fell, his face was that of a dead man.
Yes, I believe that last speech of hers, although she knew it not, was addressed to his spirit, for in her burning kiss his flesh had perished.
When at length I recovered myself a little, it was to hear Ayesha in a cold, calm voice — her face I could not see for she had veiled herself — commanding certain priests who had been summoned to “bear away the body of that accursed woman and bury her as befits her rank.” Even then I bethought me, I remember, of the tale of Jehu and Jezebel.
Leo, looking strangely calm and happy, lay now upon a couch, the arms folded on his breast. When the priests had tramped away carrying their royal burden, Ayesha, who sat by his body brooding, seemed to awake, for she rose and said —“I need a messenger, and for no common journey, since he must search out the habitations of the Shades,” and she turned herself towards Oros and appeared to look at him.
Now for the first time I saw that priest change countenance a little,fake chanel bags, for the eternal smile, of which even this scene had not quite rid it, left his face and he grew pale and trembled.
“Thou art afraid,” she said contemptuously. “Be at rest, Oros, I will not send one who is afraid. Holly, wilt thou go for me — and him?”
“Aye,” I answered. “I am weary of life and desire no other end. Only let it be swift and painless.”
She mused a while, then said —“Nay, thy time is not yet, thou still hast work to do,cheap moncler jackets. Endure, my Holly, ’tis only for a breath.”
Then she looked at the Shaman,chanel classic bags, the man turned to stone who all this while had stood there as a statue stands, and cried —“Awake!”
Instantly he seemed to thaw into life, his limbs relaxed, his breast heaved, he was as he had always been: ancient, gnarled, malevolent.
“I hear thee, mistress,” he said, bowing as a man bows to the power that he hates.
“Thou seest, Simbri,” and she waved her hand.
“I see. Things have befallen as Atene and I foretold, have they not? ‘Ere long the corpse of a new-crowned Khan of Kaloon,’” and he pointed to the gold circlet that Ayesha had set on Leo’s brow, “‘will lie upon the brink of the Pit of Flame’— as I foretold.” An evil smile crept into his eyes and he went on —“Hadst thou not smote me dumb, I who watched could have warned thee that they would so befall; but, great mistress, it pleased thee to smite me dumb. And so it seems, O Hes, that thou hast overshot thyself and liest broken at the foot of that pinnacle which step by step thou hast climbed for more than two thousand weary years. See what thou hast bought at the price of countless lives that now before the throne of Judgment bring accusations against thy powers misused, and cry out for justice on thy head,” and he looked at the dead form of Leo.
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